


Television Romance

by confundedgryffindor, jennandblitz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dysfunctional Relationships, Guns, Heists, Knives, M/M, Organized Crime, Recreational Drug Use, Robbery, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confundedgryffindor/pseuds/confundedgryffindor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennandblitz/pseuds/jennandblitz
Summary: Oh, baby, won't you stop it?You and I haven't got itTelevision romanceA jewellery heist, a family reunion, and a vague twenty-first century attempt at romance.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 79
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> we wrote a collab! please write in the comments if you think we missed any tags.
> 
> here's a wee playlist that fits with the general tone of this fic:
> 
> Isombard - Declan Mckenna  
> Bad Kids - Black Lips  
> I Fought The Law - The Clash  
> Police On My Back - The Clash  
> Police and Thieves - The Clash  
> Pumped Up Kicks - Foster The People  
> Afraid - The Neighborhood  
> The Good The Bad and The Dirty - Panic! at the Disco  
> Sex and Violence - The Exploited  
> Follow You - Bring Me The Horizon  
> Television Romance - Pale Waves  
> Cop Cars - The Exploited  
> Bad Decisions - Bastille  
> Nobody - Hozier  
> Bad Habits - FIDLAR  
> Drugs - The Cowmen
> 
> beta read by @purplechimera
> 
> enjoy!

"We should rob a bank," Sirius says one night, when all Remus can hear is the sound of the old vinyl scratching on the record player. It mingles with the incessance of the traffic beneath them and seems a fitting backing track to their setting. The naked lightbulb above illuminates the battered kitchen table, where Sirius is hunched over a little, with his elbows on the scratched surface and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Neither of them have spoken in a while, so it jolts Remus back to life a little.

Remus looks up at him, eyebrows knitted together in a frown that says  _ you're the stupidest man I have ever met.  _ He taps his cigarette over the ashtray sitting atop maps and blueprints on their kitchen table, letting the ash fall onto the small glass dish before he takes a drag. “That’s fucking stupid,” he says on an exhale. "Let's hit a jewellery store instead."

Sirius gives him half a smile. “A jewellery store.”

“Less security, less cameras,” Remus says, waving his cigarette around a little as he speaks. “It’s more personal, nothing digital, you know? It’s much easier to get to know the owner of the store, ask for the bathroom and hit it from the back.”

That half a smile turns into a full smirk as Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Eyy.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” says Remus, though he’s smirking too. 

“Please, you knew you were setting me up for the perfect innuendo.”

Remus only winks before he takes another drag from his cigarette. Through a plume of smoke, he says, “Get my notebook, I’ll talk to Albus.”

Sirius kicks his feet up onto the table, tipping his chair back onto two legs. “ _ You _ get your notebook, and  _ I’ll _ talk to Albus.”

Remus’ smirk turns into a glare. “Yeah? And do you know what to say to him? Because if I remember correctly, the last time you spoke to him you couldn’t even articulate what the fuck you meant properly, and we never went through with it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius retorts, retrieving his cigarette from where it’s sitting between his lips. “You say that as if I’m not the wildly charismatic one here, Remus. Is this just a ploy to get me to  _ look _ for your notebook because you’ve misplaced it somewhere in endless piles of your fucking garbage?”

“I’m just saying that the part of organised crime that you’re good at is actually committing it, and not organising it,” says Remus. “And it’s not a  _ ploy,  _ nor is my stuff  _ garbage.  _ I need all of this.”

“ _ All of this _ .” Sirius casts his hand across their kitchen. Every surface is filled with  _ something _ : paintings they need to fence, some jewellery Marlene was convinced was real gold before Mundungus told them it was actually plated nickel, blueprints from heists that Remus is sure was pulled off in 2011, new and oudated of the city, as well as a couple of the whole UK. All of which he keeps-- just in case. In case of  _ what,  _ is another question, but it might come in handy someday. Sirius looks back at him, blows out a plume of smoke, and grins. “It’s a good fucking job I am shit at resisting you, you bastard.” He stands with a clatter of his boots then disappears into their bedroom, presumably to look for Remus’ notebook.

Remus rolls his eyes, and he’s not really sure whether it’s a friendly eyeroll or not. “I need it!” he calls after Sirius, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

“Yeah, yeah!” Sirius shouts back, quickly followed by the mutter of  _ Prick _ and Remus isn’t really sure if it’s friendly or not. 

Remus takes one last drag from his cigarette, then stubs it out against the ashtray. It desperately needs to be emptied very soon, or their whole flat might burn up, but neither he nor Sirius seem too bothered about their living situation. He fumbles among blueprints and maps for his burner phone with one hand, the other already stretching out for the cigarette packet on the table. 

_ Talk to Albus.  _ Remus hates that, even though he was the one who suggested it. He’s not a fan of talking, and he’s definitely not a fan of Albus Dumbledore at times like these. He  _ used  _ to be a big fan of Albus, though, when Remus used to sit at the kitchen table next to his dad, staring at account books and carefully touching the unloaded gun next to the bottle of whisky. When Remus and his dad worked  _ together,  _ when they called Dumbledore and said  _ Remus has an idea for a heist.  _

Now, however, Remus only sits in the kitchen because he hasn’t got another choice. There’s still that  _ thrill  _ with breaking and entering, running away with pockets full jewellery and cash or driving off with a full packed van, but the glow in his chest gets squashed every time Albus says,  _ right, I’ll be writing this up, Remus,  _ and keeps records of everything to pay out the debt his father dug himself into.

“Found it.” Sirius drops the notebook into Remus’ lap, then holds up a duffle bag with his other hand. “And I found that load of knock-off Lacoste stuff we owe Shacklebolt,” he says through a chuckle, throwing the duffle bag onto the only other vacant chair and leaning against the table.

"Cheers," Remus says, sticking a cigarette between his teeth. He finds the burner phone underneath a map of Europe—which he definitely does  _ not _ need, even Remus can admit that—and clicks a few times to get up Albus' contact. "We should talk to Lily about the Lacoste. She's much better at handling a pissed off Shacklebolt."

Remus presses the phone against his ear and holds it in place with his shoulder as he fumbles with his notebook and searches for a pen at the same time. The notebook is filled with scrawls of ideas and locations, documented with his  _ impossibly  _ untidy handwriting which teachers used to dock marks off for in school, but is evidently very handy for documenting crimes. 

_ Jewellery store,  _ Remus scribbles at the same time as there’s a  _ click  _ on the phone, and Dumbledore picks up. “Remus, how lovely to hear from you.” Remus groans internally. 

“Likewise,” he says, drily. “Sirius and I have a plan—or idea, more like—and I thought we should run it by you first.”

“Oh?” is all Albus says in response.

“Yeah. We’re thinking about hitting a jewellery store.” Remus turns the pen he’s holding between his fingers, staring down at the blank page in his notebook.  _ Location,  _ he writes, and plucks the cigarette from his teeth to put it behind his ear instead.

“Any particular store?”

“We’ve not gotten that far yet, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” Dumbledore inhales, as if he wants to sigh but is marginally too polite for it. “It would work.”

“Better than a bank,” says Remus, shooting a look at Sirius, then continues, “I’m sure I can get Marlene to check out a good location for us: low security, small business, what-have-you, Sirius and I pull it off and we split the cash between the lot of us.”

“I’m sure we can discuss percentages, after all.” Remus can  _ hear _ the smile in the old man’s voice. He angrily scribbles down,  _ Percentages.  _

“Have you got any objections? Plans or suggestions of your own?” Remus tries; really, really  _ tries  _ to not sound too irritated as he speaks, but Dumbledore is being so infuriatingly  _ Dumbledore  _ that he can’t hide the snappy tone of his voice as much as he’d like. 

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “I’d perhaps suggest Ollivander’s and Co, on Carver Street.”

_ Ollivander’s and Co, Carver St.  _ Remus writes under  _ location,  _ followed by a series of squiggles that could be question marks, if one could read his handwriting. “We’ll check it out.”

Sirius leans over the table to read Remus’ writing upside down, or at least attempt to. He digs through the blueprints—pausing to snatch up the one of Europe and throw it to the side—to find a pen of his own.  _ Black fam go there _ , he notes in his looping, ridiculously beautiful handwriting.  _ Big diamonds etc etc.  _

Remus’ eyebrows rise, and he grins at Sirius before writing,  _ perf. _

“If I recall correctly,” Dumbledore says in his most condescending tone, “then Mr. Ollivander will be out of town for the races on Friday next week.”

“Breaking and entering might make it more difficult,” Remus says, rolling his eyes at Dumbledore’s tone, but writes it down anyway. 

“No no, Mr. Lupin.” Ah no,  _ that’s _ Dumbledore’s most condescending tone. “I mean, then, that his nephew will be in charge of the store, and perhaps it may make yours and Mr. Black’s job just a mite easier.”

It takes all power Remus possesses to not sigh, but he does roll his eyes again. “Right, you could’ve said that.”

Sirius ducks his head to catch Remus’ attention and gives his own eye-roll as he mimes someone talking with his free hand for a moment, and Remus has half a mind to mouth  _ shut the fuck up. _ Before he can, Sirius turns to search the kitchen counters for that can of Red Bull he’d left half-drunk earlier, most likely.

“I just did, Mr. Lupin.” 

Sirius turns back at that, holding not a can of Red Bull but a half-bottle of vodka. Perhaps he’s given up on the Red Bull. “I will fucking gut him,” he says viciously, obviously having heard Dumbledore.

Remus does say, “Sirius, shut up,” then, not so subtly eyeing the bottle of vodka. He takes a deep breath. “Well, Albus, you’ve been tremendously helpful. I’ll get to you once we have the plan in full swing.”

“Goodnight, Remus,” Dumbledore says, swiftly followed by the click of the line disconnecting.

Sirius is there to hold the bottle of vodka out to Remus, his face like thunder. Remus lets the phone fall from his shoulder back onto the table with an almighty sigh, and he stretches out to grab the bottle in Sirius’ hand without a word.

“Jesus  _ fuck _ , I hate that— that fucking…  _ crusty  _ old man.”

“I told you, I will kill him and make it look like some grim accident.” Sirius shoves a blueprint out of the way so he can sit on the table in front of Remus. He’s finally figured out that when he sits on them Remus shoves him off. “Crusty, conniving, shitty little old man.” His posh accent always slips out when he’s angry. Remus is usually the one to bring it out in some way, whether he’s egging him on and starting fights, or giving Sirius cause to defend him.

“Gutting him will not look like an accident, baby,” says Remus, even though a part of him definitely isn’t totally against the murder of Albus Dumbledore. He puts the hand which is not holding the bottle of vodka on Sirius’ leg and sighs again. “He said we’ll discuss  _ percentage,  _ though, the sly fucker. We’ll pull the robbery off and he’ll end up with all the money, I swear to fucking God.”

Sirius huffs a sigh and puts his hand over Remus’ on the vodka bottle, tipping it up so he can take a swig without Remus letting go of it. “Bastard. What if I don’t gut him? Lily and I can dump him at the bottom of the river instead.”

“Could we, perhaps, leave murder to the Death Eaters instead, please?” Remus says, taking a swig from the bottle after Sirius. “Riddle would’ve killed him by now, if Albus weren’t so…  _ him,  _ all the time. Almost makes you want to cosy up with him instead.”

“Right.” Sirius drops his hand from the bottle—thankfully Remus has a tight enough grip on it—and turns a little to put his foot up on Remus’ chair between his knees. He looks just the slightest bit intimidating. “Cosy up with Riddle?”

“I’m joking.” Remus frowns at Sirius, and carefully sets down the bottle on the table. “I would never. You know that.”

Sirius leans forward just a fraction, a piece of hair falling into his eyes as he stares at Remus, as if he’s some kind of human lie detector and he’d be able to tell if Remus  _ was _ cosying up with Riddle, if it were such a thing. He sets his arm on his propped-up knee and he’s barely millimetres away from Remus, so much that Remus can feel his breath on his face. Sirius does this; staring contests, playing chicken and testing other’s strength of will, their  _ nerve _ . 

“Never,” Remus repeats in a hushed tone, keeping their eyes locked. 

“Ever.” Sirius leans in and presses their lips together, tasting of cigarette smoke and vodka. This is how their games always end.

Remus lets his eyes slip shut as one of his hands move to cup Sirius’ jaw. “The Bonnie to my Clyde,” he mumbles against Sirius’ lips, not pulling away by even a millimetre, and hopes Sirius can hear him anyway.

“No,” Sirius murmurs back, and Remus can  _ feel _ the smile against his lips. “The Bonnie to  _ my _ Clyde.”


	2. Chaper Two

“Right,” Remus is saying, reclining in the battered armchair he’s designated as  _ his _ in their hideout. All of the furniture there is reclaimed from the nightclub Dorcas is security for, thrown out to the kerb and spirited away like the Order are some tiny cartoon animals--anthropomorphic, with jobs and houses and wives, what bullshit--who want it for their home inside a tree trunk. Sirius is perched on a bar stool for which they have no bar, one ankle on the opposite knee as he watches. James and Lily are squashed onto some chair with a heinous looking stain, Marlene is cross-legged on the floor and Dorcas is leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “Marlene—I’d like you to check out Ollivander’s and Co, get to know the place, check for security cameras and possible back doors, if you can. Turn up that charm, eh? James—designated driver, as usual.” 

James pumps his fist in the air with a grin, the bar in his eyebrow glinting slightly with the movements and lights cast upon his face, as Marlene says, “Why am I always the one to check the place out?”

“Heterosexual men are drawn to what they can’t have, Marls, c’mon now,” Remus says dismissively, waving his notebook around a little. It’s a  _ thing  _ that he does; waving his hands around as he speaks like he doesn’t care if he smacks the person next to him across the face. This is precisely why Sirius sits across from him nowadays.

Dorcas huffs a laugh that makes Sirius shoot her a sly grin. Dorcas is all 6’1 of terrifying and Sirius has seen her punch someone square in the face without a second thought for feeling Marlene up in a club. Marlene tips her head back and sticks her tongue out at her girlfriend before looking back to Remus.

Sirius follows her gaze, because Remus—lanky, klepto Remus with his hoodie three sizes too big and infuriatingly filled pockets of garbage he doesn’t need in far too baggy jeans—is captivating like this. He’s fucking annoying, but Sirius adores him.

“Albus says to discuss  _ percentages,  _ but I figure we’ll take care of that later,” Remus continues, free hand twitching by his side in a gesture that clearly says  _ I need a cigarette.  _ “And we’ll get the plans moving further as soon as we have a bigger scope of things.” 

Of course, Sirius knows that gesture. He fishes in the pocket of his leather jacket for his tobacco—it’s the only thing in that pocket, thank fuck,  _ he’s _ not a hoarder—and rolls two cigarettes, storing the first behind his ear until he’s done with the second. He marvels for a moment over how well he  _ knows _ Remus, how he can read him like an open fucking book. But for that night, where he’d made the joke about joining Riddle. Sirius’ heart had stopped just for a moment, his stomach dropped to his boots. He’d promised, though, the Bonnie to his Clyde, that he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

"James, I want you to get the van up and running; make sure it still works—" It does. Sirius knows it does— "Marls, shoot me a text as soon as you know how the shop looks, and we'll meet up to plan, and Sirius or I will get to you once we know exactly what's happening. That sound good?"

“Roger roger,” James says, sitting back to wrap his arm around Lily’s shoulders. She’s fiercely filing her nails in a way that makes Sirius think she could stab a man in the eye with it. James shoots Sirius a smile that makes him think his best friend is just humouring Remus, because  _ James _ knows the van works too. This is what Remus is like when he’s manic, when he’s convinced he’s the mastermind, and Sirius can’t begrudge the light in his eyes.

Marlene looks thoughtful. “Ollivander’s is real upmarket, I think. I’m gonnae go in there as some fucking… debutante or something. Daughter of an Earl. If we flash enough faux-cash I think they’ll bend over backwards.”

“We’ve got some knock-off Lacoste you can borrow, if that fits the vibe,” Remus says. “Otherwise we can find something arsey looking in a thrift shop.” There’s that glint in Remus’ eyes that says  _ I think I can take care of it,  _ the fucking klepto. Sirius has to laugh, god, he’s adorable.

“Lacoste is decidedly not the vibe I’m going for, Remus. God, what’s your vision of the upper classes, ya wee scab?” Marlene frowns, flicking a chewing gum wrapper Remus’ way. 

Dorcas shifts from her position against the wall. “My sister’s got some stuff, Marl, we can make an excuse to go back to my parent’s place and raid the wardrobe.”

“Ach, but then I have to pretend to be your  _ best pal _ ,” Marlene practically spits.

Remus shoots a look at Marlene, and says, “I  _ grew up  _ around crime, Marlene. Never before have I paid any attention to what the upper class are wearing.”

“Right-o. Here’s me coming from a poncy family before my Da lost it all gamblin’, so leave the fancy shit to me and Dorcas, aye?”

Sirius chuckles. “Alright, alright. How about we don’t start fights between the Order, you fucking morons.”

Remus points at Sirius with his free hand, knuckles permanently red with scars from punching the  _ shit  _ out of anyone who might deserve it—Sirius included. Sirius’ own knuckles are scarred in a mirror image, and it’s hard to say which one of them starts fights the most. “Listen to him, yeah?” 

“Aye right,” Marlene scoffs, rolling her eyes as she flops back to lie on the floor.

“Thanks, Marl,” Sirius drawls, finally lighting the cigarette he’s been turning around in his fingers. He’ll give the one behind his ear to Remus just as soon as he steps off his soapbox and tips himself out of the armchair he’s christened a throne.

“Any-fucking-way,” says Remus, looking enviously at Sirius’ cigarette. “I need a smoke, so, come up to me or Albus for questions, or whatnot, and we’ll take it from there. Cheers.”

Remus stands, then, and slams his notebook shut before throwing it onto the armchair. He looks a bit defeated, in a way, with his pockets full of bullshit and dark circles under his eyes, as he pretty much shuffles over to Sirius. Sirius can’t help but smile, because  _ look at him _ . Without saying anything, he hands the just-lit cigarette to Remus, filter first, and retrieves the other from behind his ear.

“Sounds good,” he says, nodding towards the armchair, like Remus has just conducted a sermon, because he has, hasn’t he?

“I feel like, just, shoplifting at Tesco’s right now and not report it to Dumbledick,” is what Remus mutters, instead of a  _ thank you  _ or something along those lines, then he takes a long drag from the cigarette. 

Sirius raises an eyebrow and takes a drag on his own cigarette. After he’s blown a smoke ring above Remus’ head like some shitty halo, he smirks at his boyfriend. “You wanna?”

“ _ God, yes, _ ” Remus groans, as if Sirius said something unbelievably sexy, and not just  _ you wanna?  _ “What’s the most valuable thing they have at Tesco? Wait, no, you know what, I’ll just take whatever fits in my pockets.”

“Remus, babe,” Sirius says, putting his arm around Remus’ shoulders and tugging him towards the fire escape back to ground level. “We’ll go for the CD’s, aren’t Switch games in ridiculously tiny cases too? Electronics is where it’s at, you know.”

“No,” Remus says, grinning around his cigarette. “The  _ people  _ around electronics is where it’s at.”

It’s Sirius’ turn to groan like Remus has said something lurid in his ear and his arm tightens around his shoulders. “Alright, Mr. Light Fingers. You get the rich bastards and I’ll get the electronics, hm?”

“Absolutely.” Remus plucks his cigarette from his lips to press them against Sirius’ temple as they walk, his chapped lips scratching a little against Sirius’ skin. 

The walk to Tesco is a little long, because they decide to go to the bigger store on the retail park, and that involves running across the dual carriageway to a cacophony of car horns and shouts of  _ stupid fuckin’ kids! _ The car lights are bright and dull at the same time, making stars dance in Sirius’ eyes as they walk, arms still around each other with a procession of cigarette smoke behind them. He’ll need to get more tobacco from Gid at some point soon, too. Sirius is laughing by the time they spill from the dull greyness of the impending dusk into the artificial light of the store, shoving Remus by the shoulder for a stupid comment he’d made about the mad-looking old man they’d passed in the doorway. 

“God, you’re fucking grim,” he says, glancing around. It’s that strange mix of not quite evening, but no longer daytime, so maybe they’re in between security guard shifts. That bodes well. “C’mon.”

Before Sirius can get far, Remus has pulled him back to himself, close to his chest, to whisper, “The Bonnie to my Clyde,” near his ear. 

Sirius retorts with a nip to Remus’ jaw. “Only if you admit I’m taller.”

“Fuck off.” Remus grins, and kisses Sirius’ forehead. “Let’s fuck shit up.”

“God, I have never loved you more.” Sirius grins back, squeezing the arm around Remus’ waist before starting off towards the electronics selection. The retail park is in a nicer area of town, so it’s got a ridiculous selection of things, and Sirius eyes the headphone display. The smaller those things get, the easier they are to steal.

He’s vaguely aware of Remus walking a few feet behind him, eyeing headphones, Switch games and people.  _ People,  _ his fucking speciality; plucking out wallets, unhinging bracelets and watches straight from people’s wrists and getting away with it almost every single time. 

_ Almost _ .

The first time Sirius met Remus, it was about as storybook as their lives are now. Sirius had been one of those people; a rich snob with an expensive watch, but he had a habit of shoplifting, a habit of swindling, of doing something other than being the boring businessman protege his father was trying to mould him into. He was waiting for an Uber, wearing a ridiculously uncomfortable suit and a ridiculously expensive watch, when someone with a mop of curls banged into him. 

It was only because Sirius had that keen eye, so used to watching everyone and everything around him, that he’d seen the boy slip his watch into his pocket.

In some ridiculous parody, Sirius had chased him down the street and cornered him in an alley where he’d thrown a punch at the freckle-daubed jaw he kisses now as he falls asleep at night. They’d ended up scuffling; Sirius vying for his watch back and Remus trying to leg it, but then Sirius had pushed him against the wall of the alleyway with his hands fisted in Remus’ oversized hoodie. 

Remus had smirked a little lopsided smile and kissed him on the mouth. That was that.

And now Sirius watches as Remus bumps into a swotty looking man, eyeing the rack of headphones with a scowl, expensive looking watch on his wrist, in that exact same way. The man stumbles, and Remus grabs ahold of his wrist to catch him. Deft, slender fingers close around the watch, and Remus covers the hand with his other one.

"I'm so sorry, sir," he says. "I'm frightfully clumsy."

The man is frowning at him, and says, "It's alright," in a gruff voice.

Sirius closes the gap between them all in a few steps, holding a gentle hand out for Remus. “Oh hey Rem,” he says in a sweet voice he reserves for cons. “I was looking for you, come on love.”

Remus smiles carefully in that way he usually does when he wants to grin but can't, and grabs Sirius' hand, stuffing the other into his overfilled pocket. Sirius leans in and presses his lips to Remus’ temple at the same time he swipes the most expensive set of headphones from the shelf next to him. 

“You,” he says, his lips still there, “are fucking glorious.”

"You flatter me, baby." Remus grins, and takes a pair of headphones as well, for good measure. 

Sirius tries to hide his smirk for just a moment. “The Bonnie to my Clyde.”

"No," says Remus, shaking his head. "The Bonnie to  _ my _ Clyde."


	3. Chapter Three

Remus watches as Marlene practically  _ trips  _ into their flat, grimacing at the way her ankles seem to twist a bit too much in her high shoes. The piles of what Sirius deems  _ garbage  _ might not make it easier for her to walk towards the kitchen, but Remus  _ needs  _ this. All of this.

“Alright fuckers,” she says in her broad accent, a sharp contrast to the picture she’s going halfway to paint. Her hair is all done up in a twist and the shift dress she’s wearing is a far cry from what she usually wears. “I got news about Ollivanders.”

Sirius looks up from his hunched position at the table, working on a passport forgery for Moody, by the looks of it, with ink staining his fingers and that sort of wired look in his eyes. “Alright Marl.”

Remus grabs his notebook—from the kitchen counter, this time, in plain view—and gestures for Marlene to take a seat at the table as he pulls out a chair to sit down himself. "Right, spill."

“Right-o. So, the nephew runs the shop when the old boy is away, he’s alright. Seems sweet and real gullible, wee thing. So of course, I say I’m fuckin’ Duchess blah blah and smile and he is practically falling over himself to help out. Fairly small, family owned, so low-key. The till looks like it carries a reasonable amount of cash but most of it is card, so the real value’s gonna be all the jewellery, yanno?”

Remus scribbles down what he deems important, nodding as Marlene speaks. "Did you catch any cameras?"

“I’m gettin’ to that, pal. Hold the fuck on, give me some poetic license, will ya? Gold, jewellery, valuables. The security system seems heavy at the front door—Duchess Fuckhead Whatever was concerned about sending repairs into them if the security was poor—but it’s a four number keypad, actually, and I think—by the looks of it—it runs off of mains power so if we flip the switches outside we’ll get in no bother.”

Remus catches Sirius stifling laughter into his hand. Not many people know it, but before Marlene joined the Order, she was at University studying Computer Technology, so she knows her shit.

Remus grins as he writes it all down in letters no one can read, feeling that  _ glow  _ in his chest again, the premature thrill of this all happening and going according to plan. "Do you need more poetic licence, or have you got anything to say about back doors, cases, whatever?"

Marlene levels a glare at him and jabs a finger in his direction. Remus sees Sirius watching them carefully out the corner of his eye. “More poetic fuckin’ license, Remus, Christ. As I was  _ trying _ to say, the back door is much less protected, but that’s because it opens on a secured courtyard shared by a few other poncy fuckin’ shops. Dorcas reckons she knows a lass who knows a fella who’s missus works at the clothing boutique, so she reckons she can pull favours, aye?”

“Dorcas knows fuckin’ everyone,” Sirius comments, taking a swig from the bottle of vodka in the middle of the table like some shitty centrepiece at a god-awful dinner. 

“Aye right,” Marlene shoots back, leaning over to avail herself of a swig of vodka too. “In terms of cases, you klepto—” She looks to Remus— “the most expensive are right by the till, there’s your diamonds and platinum, your 24 fuckin’ carrot.”

“Carat,” Sirius corrects absently, working away on his forgery. Remus barks a laugh, and writes  _ 24 carrot by the till. _

“Fuck yous, Black,” she says, as good natured as someone can cuss out their friend.

“Not me, darling, Dorko will have my head.” Sirius smirks. “Both of ‘em.”

"Can we keep to business, ladies, please," Remus says, grinning as he reaches for the cigarettes by Sirius' elbow. He has half a mind to poke his boyfriend,  _ just because,  _ but the thought of Sirius punching his face in for ruining the passport he's working on stops him, and he just sticks a cigarette between his lips instead. The way Sirius watches him—with a look that says  _ don’t you fucking dare _ —tongue between his teeth, makes Remus know Sirius knows.

“I am trying,” Marlene says, straightening the string of pearls around her neck. “That’s it really, the 24 fuckin’  _ parsnip _ gold is by the till, diamonds too, and the cheaper stuff towards the doors, though most of it will fetch a few hundred. The safe is in the back room, I could see it from the till. Looks to be a standard six-number combination, no fancy electronic bullshit here. Get the code and you’ll get in, aye?”

Remus laughs again at  _ parsnip,  _ and sees Sirius trying to stifle a snort. He lights his cigarette with a bic lighter he could've sworn he'd lost, but lays under one of the many maps on the kitchen table.

“So, that’s it. Poetic license done.” Marlene sits back like she’s just completed a taxing mission and reaches up to loosen her hair from the twist it’s in. “This dress is fucking murder.”

"The fur looks quite comfortable," Remus notes, blowing smoke out of his nose simply because he  _ can. _

“You try wearing it,” Marlene retorts, turning a toothy grin Remus’ way.

Sirius doesn’t bother stifling his snort of laughter this time. “Now that I’d pay to see.”

Remus grimaces, eyeing Marlene's dress. It's  _ beautiful,  _ but it doesn't look  _ comfortable _ by any means, and all Remus ever really wears is hoodies, jeans, sweats and the odd t-shirt. Him wearing a dress would be  _ uncomfortable  _ for everyone involved. "No, thank you."

Marlene rolls her eyes and takes another swig of vodka. “Didn’t think so. You heard from Lily or James today? They said they were going to the racetrack to skim bets.”

Remus frowns and looks over at Sirius. "I haven't heard anything, have you?"

“Huh?” Sirius looks up, a smudge of ink on his nose. “Oh, James and Lily? Yeah, I got a text on my burner phone from James—well at least it was signed James—saying they were good. Made a killing.”

"Oh, thrilling," Remus says around his cigarette, reading over the notes in his book once again, adding the odd word here and there to make it feel more cohesive.

“Grand, James’ll be insufferable again eh?” Marlene stands, the chair scraping back behind her. “Right, if yous have had enough poetic license, I’ll be leaving.”

"Tell Dorcas I said hi," Remus says, not bothering to stand up to bid Marlene goodbye by the door. She's a grown woman, dressed in an uncomfortable dress, and is probably dying to get home to her girlfriend, so Remus figures she can see herself out.

“Yeah, I will. See you, losers,” she says, blowing them both a kiss that seems at odds with her words.

Sirius looks up from his work and grins. “Catch ya later, Marl.” Remus watches something pass over his face. “Actually, I’ll see you to the door?” He stands, overflowing elegance—if that was Remus he’d trip over his own feet—and skirts around towards the door with Marlene.

Remus frowns, cigarette between his teeth, and wonders what that look which passed over Sirius' face means, what they could possibly want to talk about without Remus listening in. The drag Remus takes from his cigarette is so deep that he would've coughed, if it weren't for the fact that he's been smoking under the kitchen fan with his mum since he was fifteen.  _ What  _ in the everliving fuck could Sirius want to talk about? 

The voices of Marlene and Sirius travel through the flat like hushed mumbles, and Remus can't make out a single word. He grits his teeth as his mind involuntarily travels to the quip about  _ fucking  _ they made earlier.  _ Fuck no. _ Oh,  _ fuck no.  _ The hand not holding his cigarette clenches into a fist; rosy knuckles turning white as he grips thin air so hard that it aches.

Remus has always had that whisper in the back of his mind; like a creature sitting on his shoulder, nagging and poking the right buttons with the right whispers of  _ what if _ s and  _ maybe _ s that make no sense whatsoever, but Remus can't help but to listen to, squash with distractions of running from cops with pockets full of jewellery and other expensive knick-knacks he easily swipes from racks and counters, with alcohol and drugs; things that give him a  _ thrill.  _ But now he sits, hearing voices but not words, and hears  _ what if they're actually fucking.  _ And part of him knows Sirius; knows their boundaries and tests and games, knows how Sirius  _ wouldn't.  _ He wouldn't. The Bonnie to his Clyde, or the other way around, whatever, and yet Remus listens to the  _ what if. _

Remus hears the front door open, then a louder, cheerier voice. “Bye, Marl!”

“See ya. Bye Remus!” Marlene calls, and then Remus hears the door shut again, the rattling of the chain being pulled across now that they’re not expecting anyone tonight.

Remus takes one last drag, then stubs out his cigarette in the—now emptied—ashtray. He grabs the vodka bottle, and stalks off to the bedroom without even looking at Sirius.  _ He wouldn't, but he could. _

The bedroom door slams far louder than Remus wants it to, but he doesn't care. It's dark, clothes are strewn across the floor and every surface is filled with  _ something  _ in here too—more goods that needs to be fenced (Hermes scarves Lily says need to go somewhere good, those Louis Vuitton bags he’s not sure are genuine but will get a good price anyway), the guitar missing a string, all warped and dusty after it's been left in the sun and generally  _ unused  _ for years, duffel bags of clothes that Shacklebolt said were unusable due the  _ stitching.  _ Remus ignores it all, and goes straight to plug in the fairy lights he'd grabbed on a whim a few winters ago, because the box fit in his coat pocket and it would look  _ good  _ to have multicoloured fairy lights in the bedroom, lighting up the room with a soft glow of blue and red instead of that aggressive ceiling lamp that's never turned on.

Remus takes a seat in the window, where pillows and blankets lay on the windowsill instead of plants and decorations. They haven't got the patience to deal with houseplants, and when a windowsill is large enough to hold a person, the best thing is  _ obviously _ to gather cushions to sit on and just  _ be.  _

It’s only a few minutes later when Remus hears the door open behind him, and the ugly overhead light of the hallway spills into the room. “Oh Christ,” Sirius says, letting the door swing shut behind him so the lights dim back to red and blue. “What the fuck now?”

Remus shrugs, and swallows down two mouthfuls of vodka with a wince before setting the bottle down next to him. His teeth are still gritted, jaw clenched so tightly half his face hurts, and he can't stop thinking about the  _ what if _ s, even though Sirius  _ wouldn't. _

“Great, great.” Sirius strolls over to him—is his hair messier? His lips pinker?—and sits on the cushion nearest the wall. “This sure looks like no big deal. Sitting on your window seat of Feelings, fucking…  _ feeling _ things.”

"How observant of you," Remus says, simply. " _ My window seat of Feelings _ . You and James could start a club."

“What for?” Sirius plucks the bottle from next to him and takes a long pull of it.

Remus snatches the bottle back, takes an equally long pull, and says, "For observant-ness. You, James and—" Remus tries to flick away a cluster of dust on one of the pillows, but just ends up breaking it apart and spreading it out instead— " _ Marleeene. _ "

Sirius watches him with the sort of curl to his upper lip that would be far more at home on the posh bastards Remus likes stealing from. He’s got his head tipped back to rest against the wall behind him and one leg tucked up, effortless. “The way you say Marlene there sounds like you wanna say something else, Rem. Spit it out.”

Remus shrugs again. "What were you two talking about?"

“She had some Gucci—shoes or something, the ones Fab was after, you know?” Sirius pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, one that Remus doesn’t remember him rolling. The lie had slipped so easily from his lips Remus had almost believed it.

"Gucci, eh?" Remus asks, trying to sound as icy cold as Sirius, trying to  _ not  _ let the anxiety seep out through his words as he speaks.  _ Gucci.  _ What bullshit.

“Yeah.” Sirius leans in closer, and for a moment Remus thinks he might kiss him—which would probably result in Remus shoving him away and then another one of their fist-fights that dissolve into more kissing no matter how they start—but he just takes the lighter sitting next to Remus’ thigh instead. The light gutters across the angles of his face before he snuffs it out.

"Bullshit." It tumbles out of his lips before he can stop it; an icy cold  _ spit  _ that sounds far more vicious than he feels.

The change in Sirius’ expression in instantaneous: his eyebrows hike up and his lips twist from his barely-contained sneer to all out haughtiness as he sets the bottle down with a thud. “Yeah? Bullshit? What’s bullshit, Remus?”

"Gucci shoes," Remus says, "is fucking  _ bullshit. _ "

Sirius studies him for a moment longer, his eyes shining. “You think I’m lying, then? Think Marlene and me got secrets to keep?” He shifts forward, elbow on his knee. “That it?”

Remus is almost irritated with  _ himself  _ with all the shrugging he does, but he can't help that lift of his shoulders as he reaches for the vodka bottle. "If you haven't got secrets to keep then you could've bloody well kept talking in the kitchen."

He avoids Sirius' eyes, and keeps his gaze down at his own hands instead. Scarred, red, seemingly constantly swollen at the knuckles from all the scar tissue. Remus flexes his free hand; stretches his fingers and clenches it into a fist, over and over, as he gulps down another mouthful of vodka. "Why shouldn't I believe that it's fucking  _ bullshit,  _ when you can't talk about it in front of me, hm?"

Sirius’ laugh seems to rattle the thin pane of glass in the window. “Did you feel left out,  _ babe? _ ”

That _stings,_ and it feels as though an iron fist clenches around Remus' heart because he _does_ feel left out, left with his fucking continuous stream of _what if, what if_ until all sense he has disappears. "Oh, fuck _you._ "

A smile slides even wider on Sirius’ lips. “Not tonight, darling.”

Something inside Remus snaps, and he sets the bottle down so forcefully he's surprised it doesn't crack. With a cold, bitter laugh, Remus clenches his fist back up again, and he looks up with a dark look in his eyes, and throws the first punch. Right in Sirius' jaw—his favourite place to kiss, his favourite place to punch.

Maybe it says something about how often this happens, but Sirius seems to move with the punch, his head jerking to the side. When he straightens back up—his neck cracking as he does—he’s got that telltale tightness to his jaw and his eyes are dark too. “Oh,” he says, almost like he’s laughing. “That’s how we're doing this, huh?”

Remus doesn't reply; only straightens his back, squares his shoulder and scowls, and distantly hopes that too-large hoodies, tawny curly hair, freckles and a split eyebrow looks intimidating. The look in his eye says  _ do it,  _ because it's what he  _ wants.  _ A reaction, a  _ thrill,  _ to forget about the anxious creature on his shoulder and feel something else.

Sirius tips his neck the other way, with another sharp crack, then in a blur of limbs he’s on Remus, throwing another punch to his cheek, the other hand fisting in his hoodie material. Remus  _ laughs  _ with the punch, and throws one right back, not even sure where it lands. 

One of their many games, always ending in the same way, but never before they've had their chance to use each other as punching sacks in a boxing hall. In five minutes they might be kissing  _ desperately,  _ with teeth clashing together and hands fisted in shirts and hair, and in fifteen they'll be icing each other's bruises and wounds, but for now, they'll simply beat the  _ shit  _ out of each other, because it's what Remus  _ needs _ and in some way, it’s what Sirius needs too.

Remus is right, of course, because somehow, somewhere along the line, they’re kissing, holding each other so close it’s almost like pushing them away. Then, like always, after, they sit knee-to-knee at the kitchen table with the washing up bowl filled with warm water and a wad of gauze between them.

“This is gonna sting,” Sirius murmurs as he takes Remus’ hand and submerges it in the warm water. He has a cigarette hanging from his split lip and Remus can see the filter is stained with blood.

Remus winces with a sharp inhale, even though he's felt this exact same thing so many times before. There's a bruise blooming over Sirius' jaw already, the swell of it spreading down his neck and up to his cheek, and Remus can't help but to grin at it. "It looks kinda pretty with your skin," he says, pointing at what's now more red and pink, rather than a purple just yet.

Sirius gives him a genuine smile, one that reaches his grey eyes and makes the cigarette jerk with the movement of his lips; like he’s somehow  _ touched _ by the fact Remus has just called the bruise he put there half an hour ago pretty. “Stop admiring it and hold the ice pack on it, will you?” He says, but his fingers are so soft and gentle across Remus’ knuckles.

"I can't help it," Remus murmurs, and holds up the ice pack wrapped in a tea-towel against the bruise. "You're impossible to  _ not  _ admire." It's true, too; Sirius with his sharp facial features and long, slender limbs, the grey eyes that hold more emotion than his whole face at times. He's so beautiful, and Remus  _ has  _ to look, think  _ he's all mine  _ despite the anxious creature still whispering, but more quiet this time, easier to ignore.

Preoccupied by cleaning Remus’ knuckles, Sirius smiles, his touch unbearably light. When he’s done, pulling Remus’ hand from the water and patting it dry, he tilts his head and presses a kiss to Remus’ wrist, with just a  _ hint _ of teeth, like he’s saying  _ you’re mine too. _


	4. Chapter Four

_“Whoaaaa, we’re halfway thereeeee!”_

“ _Whoa-oh!”_

Sirius groans, letting his head thunk back against the headrest of his seat as the—completely off-key and nausea inducing—singing reaches a fever pitch. James is in charge of the music, and like always, he’s picked the worst 80’s hair metal he could.

Beside him, Remus is chuckling, leg bouncing with adrenaline and what looks like sheer _happiness._

" _Take my hand!"_ Remus sings, equally off-key and horrible, even though Sirius has heard him sing _not-_ terrible before. Christ, he was more than _good_ when he used to sing and play on that guitar that's now practically unusable, but now he sings off-key, grinning from ear to ear.

Sirius rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling as he throws his cigarette onto the floor and stubs it out. Maybe his cigarette is a little more herbal relaxation than strictly tobacco but Sirius has never done a heist sober before and he doesn’t plan on changing that. He swallows, grabs Remus’ hand and holds them both up. _“And we’ll make it I swear!”_

Remus laughs and tugs their hands toward his face to press a dry, scratchy kiss against Sirius' knuckles. They’re still a little beaten up from their last fight, still a little swollen, with lingering purple and red there, but Remus’ kiss, however dry and scratchy, feels good; just as good as it feels on the bruise at his jaw, too.

The whole energy in the van is _buzzing_ with bad music and Remus' laughs and the smell of the fucking _top teir_ weed Gid and Fab deal in alleyways and behind schools. The roads twist left and right but Sirius doesn’t look out of the window, too busy looking around this gathered group of idiots he works with—if he can call it work. Every time they go around a corner, Remus’ knee knocks against Sirius’ but he doesn’t mind, just smiles every time.

James taps away on his phone to change the music, then Sirius has to bark out a laugh when he recognises the song.

“You walking fucking cliche, James,” Sirius says, shaking his head.

_“Breakin’ rocks in the hard sun!”_

Then the whole van pitches in with the next line, like it’s the Orders motto and they’re going to get kicked out of the moving van in the middle of the traffic otherwise. _“I fought the law and the law won!”_

Remus taps both his feet to the music, off-rhythm and more stomping than tapping, thrashing his head around as he sings along. The fucking dork. He’s a huge fucking dork and yet Sirius sits next to him and smiles fondly, because Remus is _his_ fucking dork, with the cuts across his knuckles in the shape of Sirius’ jaw, the split in his eyebrow Sirius had put there and kissed better. Sirius lets himself sink into the air of excitement, of weed, of nervous anticipation that’s stronger than anything else. He’s jittering by the time the van pulls to a stop outside that boutique a friend of a friend of a friend works at.

Just as they’re stepping out of the van, with the dusk around them, in the alley next to that boutique, Remus grabs Sirius by the scruff of his shirt, tugs him close and kisses him as though he's been fucking _drowning_ without Sirius' lips against his. Sirius grins into the kiss, letting fingers tap on Remus' jaw as a way to say _I need to breathe,_ and when Remus finally does pull away, he murmurs, "Ready, Bonnie?" with that manic glint in his eyes that says _nothing can stop me now._ God, Sirius loves it, that manic energy, that part of Remus that makes him almost hard to keep up with, and Sirius is manic as anything too.

He snorts a laugh, squeezes his fingers around Remus’ jaw and says, “Ready, Bonnie.”

Remus brings his bandana up from his neck to sit over his nose, hiding his face _just in case;_ God, Sirius can _hear_ Remus’ voice when thinks that, can hear the little paranoid whisper when they’re in bed at night and he gets up to check the windows are locked, _just in case._ They’re not stupid, but balaclavas or pantyhose looks fucking ridiculous. At least bandanas are _stylish_ , Sirius thinks, as he pulls up his own around his nose, black, of course, and blood stained from the time he and Remus got into a scrap right after a heist.

Dorcas is out of the van next and twirls the ring of the key around her forefinger. “C’mon, arseholes,” she says, striding forward to unlock the boutique door. She’d gotten the key from that friend of a friend of a friend and pushes the door open to usher them in. 

Remus has said the plan a million times over, so much that Sirius hears it on repeat in his head: _Dorcas unlocks the boutique, Lily stays at the back door to scare off any passersby, Sirius, Marlene and I_ (Sirius is sure he doesn’t want Marlene there for some reason, but she’s the best with the safe and the security system) _will go into the store. Marlene, cut the power, disable the alarms. Sirius, you and I will get the safe code from the nephew, then grab all the jewellery we can_. In fact, Sirius has seen him say that plan so often that he’s willing to bet, beneath the bandana, Remus is murmuring it to himself like he’s praying the rosary.

They walk through the boutique, and out of the corner of his eye, Sirius can see Remus swiping a pair of expensive looking sunglasses of its rack. It’s almost too dark to see, _almost,_ but Sirius sees. Of course he does. He knows, too, that this is a favour Dorcas has called in, and he knows, too, that this isn’t part of the deal. But, he also knows that this is what Remus thrives off, this is his lifeblood, so he just smiles behind his bandana and goes through to the back of the store. 

As they’re opening the back door, Sirius catches Remus’ eye and nudges him with his elbow, trying to smile with his eyes because he knows. No one else had caught that, but Sirius had. Remus winks, and stuffs his hand in his hoodie pocket at the same time as the other goes up to fix the hood in place on his head. 

“Listen, I know this is foreplay for you two, but can you stop making eyes?” Lily says as she shoulders the door open, taking a long look around.

Sirius just sniggers. “You’re just jealous because last time you were lookout and James was driving you ended up having a quickie in the van.” 

Lily gives him the finger in reply.

“Children, please,” Remus says, but Sirius can _hear_ the smile on his lips. 

Marlene rolls her eyes. “Fuck sakes.”

Sirius just grins as he steps out of the door, then around to the back door of Ollivander’s. Marlene has skirted ahead, a screwdriver in one hand, and is already levering the lock open. Sirius just strolls up and kicks the lock, not usually one for pussyfooting around things. The door smacks back against the wall and Sirius strides in with Remus on his heels. The butterfly knife is in his left hand, sharpened the night before with the satisfying sound of steel against whetstones.

The shop doesn't _look_ as posh as Sirius had thought; with more of a wooden, _homey_ feel to it, if one excludes the glass cases lining the walls, filled with marine blue cushions upon which pearl necklaces and diamond earrings sit. There's a small lamp in each case too, lighting up the display with soft, yellow light. Or at least, there is, until Sirius hears a cacophony of Scottish swear words from the back room, then the place is plunged into darkness, but for the warm din of the streetlights outside. 

Ollivander’s nephew is at the till, perhaps counting the takings for the day. At the abrupt change, he spins around, only to be confronted with Sirius and Remus. Sirius half-wishes he wasn’t wearing the bandana for the toothy grin he’d give the man.

“Step away from the till, pal,” he says, knife casual enough by his side, but he _knows_ Ollivander has seen it. Sirius is watching that panic button just beneath the counter, whether he’s inching closer. “Else this’ll get real messy.”

Sirius hears the rustle of fabric beside him, then the cock of Remus' gun. "Real fast, might I add," Remus says. Remus likes the gun, maybe it makes him feel cool or like he’s in Hollywood or this is a big heist, but Sirius likes his knife. He’s had it since he was a kid.

Ollivander remains where he's standing, but slowly, slowly lifts his hands into air, eyes wide with absolute panic. Sirius hears the sharp inhale, the gulp, as Ollivander's eyes dart between him and Remus, but he doesn't move.

“C’mon mate,” Sirius says, gesturing with his knife. “I said move, not freeze.” He moves forward, grabbing Ollivander’s arm. He gives this frightened little whimper that Sirius tuts at before dragging him away. “See, not that hard. Here, here’s another easy task for you. You can unlock the safe for our pal, right?”

Ollivander gives another whimper, another gulp that Sirius can see, Remus straightens his back and squares his shoulders, and Sirius is sure he's got that same toothy grin under his bandana that Sirius does.

“That looks like a no to me, and that’s really not the answer I want,” Sirius says, his fingers digging into Ollivander’s arm just a little. 

"See," Remus says, low in his throat. "We don't _want_ this to get messy. Do you?" Ollivander quickly shakes his head. There's a bead of sweat trickling down his temple, down to his jaw. "Then open the safe for our friend, and we'll leave."

Sirius’ eyes flicker to Remus, drawn by that note in his voice that only comes out every so often. Lily’s comment by the doors was almost right, wasn’t it?

“Just take whatever you want from the cases. There’s—there’s nothing in the safe, just take whatever you want… Just don’t hurt me.” Ollivander’s voice is shaky as he looks between the two of them. Sirius can feel his hand trembling too, with the grip he has around his arm.

Remus laughs quietly and scratches his chin with his free hand. "I don't really believe that. Do you, Padfoot?"

“Not in the slightest. I would really recommend telling our friend how to open the safe, Mr. Ollivander.” Sirius leans against one case, scratching the point of his knife into the glass. “It’s for the best.”

"Really," Remus adds. "Best for all of us, isn't it? Though I don't mind snagging something else in here too."

“It’s empty, I swear!”

Remus turns around, gun still in his hand, and smashes a case open, then another one, until his hands are full with jewellery of gold and silver, decorated with intricate designs and diamonds. 

Sirius rolls his eyes. He’s not got enough patience for this, never mind the way Ollivander is shaking like a leaf. He hauls him closer and presses the tip of his knife to the soft spot behind Ollivander’s chin. Sirius knows from experience how menacing someone can look with bright eyes peering over the top of a bandana. “Listen, I really cannot be fucked with this, so how about you tell me the combination, right?”

Ollivander’s eyes are like dinner plates and he’s trembling pitifully. “There’s—there’s nothing in the safe, I swear it! Take the cases, please!”

Sirius can see Remus out the corner of his eye, probably doing what he does best. Sirius presses the tip of his knife into Ollivander’s skin, just hard enough for it to pucker and a spot of blood to bleed into the divot. “I really, _really_ dislike liars, Mr. Ollivander, and my already insignificant patience is wearing so very thin.” He leans closer, and the way Ollivander recoils means he can feel Sirius’ warm breath on his face. When he speaks, his voice is icy cold and sharp like razor wire. “The combination, Mr. Ollivander.”

Silence, a beat, then two. Sirius presses, just a little. 

Remus _looks_ tense, even hidden under a hoodie three sizes too big with his back turned to Sirius and Ollivander, and he quickly stuffs his pockets with whatever it is that he's holding, then whips around. He grips the gun in his hand tighter, one finger moving toward the trigger as he aims the gun right at Ollivander's chest.

Silence. Remus aims at Ollivander's foot instead, and fires with an ear splitting sound.

Sirius winces back—fuck, he hates guns, they’re so goddamn fucking loud—and his ears are ringing with the bang, as well as Ollivander’s sobs.

“Two-four-seven-one-six-nine!” He’s saying, sobbing as he sinks against one of the cases. “Oh god, just—take whatever, please!”

Sirius rolls his eyes and shoulders past Remus towards the back room. “Just get your fill here, Moony,” he says, stalking through the door. Marlene is at the desk, watching the door like a hawk. No doubt she heard the gunshot and wondered what the fuck was going on, and Sirius is willing to bet anyone in a two mile radius did, too. He grits his teeth so he doesn’t punch the wall by the door. “Two-four-seven-one-six-nine, Mar, let’s go.”

Marlene straightens then strides over to the safe. “I already checked it’s not linked to any alarm system. Just needed the code.” She meets Sirius by the safe and squats down to it. “Did Remus… shoot the guy?” she asks, almost through gritted teeth, as if she’s wary to ask.

“In the fucking foot, Marl,” Sirius says, teeth clenched. Don’t punch the wall. 

"I'm no killer, you both know that," Remus says. Sirius throws a glance over his shoulder at Remus now in the doorway, pockets now doubt bursting with jewels.

“Right-o.” She turns about to the safe and punches in the code, the door swinging open. “Oh fucking right, aye!”

Sirius peers in to see what must be several grand in cash—Jesus, fuck, maybe close to ten—and a velvet box that he doesn’t really give a shit about. He leans in and grabs a wad of cash, shoving it into his pocket, Remus by his side.

“Fuck, _guys!”_ Lily’s voice comes from the doorway. “Sirens, we need to leave!”

Sirius spits a handful of curses as Marlene says something that he swears down is Gaelic before the three of them go about shoving as much cash as they can into their pockets. There’s still _so_ much jewellery in the cases, and there’s no way they can fit all this cash in their pockets either. If they’d had the time, they could’ve done it all, loaded up Dorcas and Lily too, gotten a duffel bag from the van, but now they’re out of time.

“Guys!” Lily is at the doorway now, holding it open. Usually she’s calm as anything, but her green eyes are wide. There are sirens in the distance, drawing closer. “Hurry the _fuck_ up!”

Remus is out the door first, velvet box and cash in his hands— _klepto fucker_ —then Marlene runs after, and lastly Sirius, scowling at Remus' retreating back. Lily has already run through to the boutique, so Sirius catches the door of the store as it swings shut. With a growl, he slams his fist into the wood of the door, leaving a spider web of splinters there, smudged in blood. 

Fuck’s _sake._

By the time the group spill out of the boutique, the sirens are closer. Sirius is trying not to seethe as he rushes past Dorcas, who doesn’t even bother to lock the boutique door; she can just owe a favour to her friend.

It’s dead silent in the van. James has cut the music, and they pull out into traffic in the most serene way possible, at odds to the way Sirius’ blood is humming and his chest heaving.

Remus is sitting on the floor in the van, gun locked on the floor beside him, one knee bent with his arm resting on it as he pants heavily into his bandana. Marlene sits beside him, still spitting out words which Sirius _really_ thinks are Gaelic now, but he also really doesn't fucking care.

Sirius takes two breaths, his knuckles throbbing, his mind filled with _don’t, don’t, don’t,_ before he tears the bandana from his face and throws it down. “What the _fuck_ , Remus!?”

Remus rips his bandana down too, except he lets it hang around his neck again. " _What_?"

“What the fuck do you mean, _what?_ You fucking _shot_ the guy? In the goddamn foot, huh? What the fuck, you _know_ that thing is fucking loud and the reason the god damned fucking—” Sirius smacks his fist against the seat to punctuate every word— “cops got called is because of your—” His fist collides with Remus’ shoulder, hard— “fucking _bullshit!”_

"I got the _fucking_ code, didn't I?!" Remus aims a punch at Sirius' shoulder, too, hard enough to shove him back a little.

“I had it, Remus! I had it fucking handled, you impatient little fuck!” Sirius shoves him back, aiming the steel toes of his boot into Remus’ stomach. Remus grunts and shoves Sirius' legs away.

"He wasn't going to fucking talk with your knife against his chin!" Remus is about to haul himself on top of Sirius, fist clenched and ready to collide with Sirius' face—Sirius tilts his chin up, to take it because fuck _him_ —but before he can get far, Dorcas has grabbed him by the back of his hoodie, pulling him back again.

"Calm the _fuck_ down," Dorcas hisses at the both of them, jaw clenched as she keeps Remus in an iron grip.

Sirius grins at Remus, nasty and toothy, before he spits a glob of blood—when did he do that? Did he bite his cheek?—at him. It falls a little short onto his hoodie but Sirius doesn’t care, tipping his chin up. “Yeah, Remus, calm the _fuck_ down.”

Remus growls and _wrenches_ himself out of Dorcas' grip, elbowing her in the stomach as he does, and actually manages to throw himself on top of Sirius this time. Sirius meets him for it, scrambling for hits and punches. All at once, the van roars to life; Marlene and Lily shouting, James slowing the van down and swerving around a corner. As a trio, Lily, Marlene and Dorcas haul Remus off of Sirius, and Lily puts herself between the boys.

“Enough!” She shouts, giving them both a look.

“Fuck off, Lil. If Remus wants a fucking fight he’ll get one. Ruined the fucking heist he planned himself, stupid fuck,” Sirius says, wiping blood from his split lip.

"Get the _fuck_ off me," Remus growls at Marlene and Dorcas, before turning to Sirius again. "And I already fucking told you! He wasn't going to _fucking_ talk, even a son of a posh fucking politician like yourself should be able to see that."

If Sirius wasn’t angry before, then he is now. “Fuck you. Fuck _you_ , you twat.” He throws himself forward, baying for blood now, because Remus _knows_ not to talk about his family. “Fuck you!” Lily keeps in between them, pushing Sirius back. “I’ll kick your fucking head in, you fucking _prick!”_

Remus grins his stupid, _disgusting_ fucking grin, eyes still manic and chest still heaving. "Slice my face open with your poncy fucking knives too, hm?"

“Weren’t you two planning your fucking wedding this morning!?” Marlene hollers, still yanking Remus back.

“Nah, wouldn’t want your dirty, common fucking blood on it, would I?” Sirius sneers. He doesn’t _think_ that, never means that, but when Remus calls him _poncy_ and talks of his family he pushes against that barrier, makes himself say it so he knows he’s _not_ like them because of the way his stomach wrenches when the words come out of his mouth.

Remus wrenches out of Marlene and Dorcas' grip again, but instead of throwing himself onto Sirius, he barks, "Stop the _fucking_ van!" as he reaches for his gun.

What follows seems like a collective sharp inhale, and the tension of their fight turns into tension of _what if_ as James stands on the brakes _._ Remus has that manic glint in his eyes and Sirius freezes, eyeing the gun for a moment. He doesn’t let the shiver of fear that runs through him show, though, just tips his chin up and sets his shoulders.

“Remus…” Lily says, holding a hand out, tentative, barely breathing.

“Go on then,” Sirius says lowly, clenching his jaw.

Remus has his shoulders squared still, glaring at Sirius so _fucking_ fiercely. He doesn't raise the gun, doesn't cock it or let the mag roll around, but spits right in Sirius' face. Then Remus hops out of the van, leaving the jewellery and cash that fell out of his pockets during the fight on the floor of the van, and starts walking instead.

Sirius glares right back, doesn’t flinch at the spit because he’d expected it—like he doesn’t _know_ Remus, good and bad—and just sneers in response. He looks up and Marlene gives him a look, raising her eyebrows as if to say _well, then?_ but Sirius doesn’t want to run after Remus. He doesn’t trail after _anyone._

Only, he loves Remus. Even when they’re fighting and screaming and Sirius _would’ve_ kicked his goddamn fucking face in if the girls hadn’t separated them, but he _loves_ him. With a scoff, Sirius turns and strides out of the van, the thud of his boots on the tarmac.


	5. Chapter Five

Remus tucks his gun into his waistband as he walks away from the van. There's blood dripping from his nose and eyebrow, and though he'd never admit it out loud, his entire fucking body  _ aches  _ and  _ stings _ with Sirius' punches that seemed to have landed everywhere. Fucking arse.

He loves Sirius, of course he does, but  _ fuck, _ that man is both stupid and infuriating, and Remus would've stomped his arm into several, distinct pieces if Marlene and Dorcas weren't holding him back. But Remus loves him. So much that it fucking  _ hurts,  _ sometimes.

The street he's on seems to be pretty much deserted, save for a woman standing a few feet away with a cigarette. Remus knows that he's bloody and bruised and still half-wheezing after the kick Sirius aimed at his stomach and probably looks  _ terrifying _ right now, yet his stupidity takes the best of him, and Remus makes his way over to the woman.

"Hey," he says, hoarsely. "Have you got a smoke to spare?"

The woman gives him an awkward look, steps back just a fraction, before going into her pocket. Before she can pull out a cigarette carton, Remus feels a hand on his arm, and then a cigarette held in front of him, by frustratingly familiar fingers, deft and fine, scarred knuckles. Remus has his elbow in Sirius' ribs before he even turns around to check if it is him.  _ He knows;  _ knows those fucking knuckles, the smell of his deodorant and the feel of his breath on his neck. Sirius’ breath on the back of his neck where the awful stick-and-poke tattoo of a star sits.

Sirius is already walking further down the street, not looking back to Remus but holding the cigarette out to him. “Don’t want it, then?”

"Fuck off," is all Remus says, turning back to the woman. Her hand is still in her pocket, slowly taking a few more tentative steps backwards.

Sirius laughs, still holding the cigarette out. “Fine.”

The woman pulls out a cigarette packet and offers it to Remus with shaking hands. Remus takes one cigarette from the packet with bloody fingers and sticks it between his lips, very pointedly ignoring Sirius.

"Thank you." Remus fumbles in his pockets, digging through jewellery and other  _ garbage  _ before he finds his lighter. It takes a few clicks before it lights up, and the drag Remus takes is  _ impossibly  _ long. When he looks up, Sirius is a few hundred feet away, leaning casually against a lamppost, smoking his own cigarette. Remus turns around and starts to walk the other way.

His heart aches more than his body does right now, but  _ fuck Sirius  _ and  _ fuck  _ his stupid mouth and the stupid shit he says. Fuck their constant fighting and insults. If this is the way he wants it to be, then who is Remus to deny him of his wishes?

After walking for however long, aching and not quite cold, just walking, Remus becomes aware of footsteps behind him, heavy combat boots. The wind is blowing against his back, carrying with it the scent of Sirius’ deodorant. 

Remus clenches his jaw and pulls his hood further up his head, and it ends up falling in front of his eyes but he really doesn't  _ fucking  _ care.

“Remus,” Sirius says, grabbing his upper arm and pulling him around.

Remus immediately shoves him away, lips curling to a sneer. "Fuck  _ right  _ off, Sirius."

Sirius’ wry smirk is fucking  _ infuriating _ and beautiful all at once. “Says the boy who nearly shot me.”

Remus wants to punch him. He wants to punch him right in his stupid fucking face, but instead he presses his forearm against Sirius' chest and forces him up against a brick wall. He can hear the  _ thud  _ of Sirius' head hitting cold, ragged brick, and a part of him wants to wince but a bigger part doesn't fucking care. 

"Don't fucking test me," Remus growls, his face mere millimetres from Sirius'. "I swear to God. Don't— don't  _ fucking. Test. Me. _ "

Sirius’ hands go to the zips of his hoodie, holding him close and grinning luridly again. “Or what, Remus?”

Remus bats his hand away, breathing heavily. "I still have the fucking gun, don't I?"

“You wouldn’t shoot me, babe,” Sirius breathes, pulling him in to kiss along his jaw.

Remus shoves him away. His heart is beating  _ wildly _ in his chest and he doesn't know if it's love or anger, though with Sirius both of those things seem interchangeable. "Get off me," he says, sounding almost out of breath.

Sirius does so, because he never crosses  _ those _ boundaries; never does when Remus says  _ no _ like that. He leans back against the bricks, his eyes shining. His hair is wild, strands of it sticking to the brick. Remus loves him.  _ Fuck.  _ Sirius  _ knows _ it too, the way he’s smiling. Because it’s true, isn’t it? Remus wouldn’t shoot him. No matter how much they fight and punch, scream and shout, Remus still loves him, and wouldn't trade him for the world.

“Okay, Rem,” he breathes.

Remus lets the arm that's pressing into Sirius' chest move, up to his shoulders. His hand snakes up to Sirius' head, cradles the back that slammed into the brick wall as his fingers tangle into long strands of black hair. Remus loves him and almost hates him at the same time, his whole fucking world. He swallows hard, and it's his turn to kiss him now. Straight on the lips, tasting blood and sweat and smoke. Sirius bites his lip, little nips sparked with pleasure. He still keeps his arms at the side, because Remus had said  _ get off me _ , but he kisses him back with passion, moaning.

"God," Remus murmurs. "I can't figure out if I love or hate you."

“Both, babe,” Sirius whispers back, his tongue trailing over Remus’ bottom lip. “Both.”

"Yeah." Remus tugs at Sirius' hair, trying to tug him closer even though they're standing  _ so close  _ already. "The Bonnie to my Clyde."

“The Bonnie to  _ my _ Clyde, babe, but I’ll forgive you.” Sirius kisses him again, the corner of his mouth, up the hollow of his cheekbone, tiny little footprint kisses, the nip of teeth.

* * *

Remus clicks angrily on his burner phone to call Albus, scowling down at the tiny Nokia in his hand.  _ Fucking shit,  _ he hates Albus. Remus presses the phone to his ear as he lights a cigarette—with an actual working lighter, this time.

“Hello, Mr. Lupin,” Albus says, his voice lilting.

Remus sighs, rubbing his eyebrow as he says, "Hi."

“So, how did Ollivander’s go?”

"The cops came, in case you haven't seen the news. We got a load of shit, though.”

Dumbledore sighs just slightly. “Yes, I did see it on the news. No one got caught, which I  _ suppose _ is a plus.”

Remus sighs back, much heavier than Dumbledore did. “ _ Suppose?  _ We got shit worth at least 20 thousand pounds. Watches, necklaces, earrings—” Remus cuts himself off, almost mentioning the safe with the velvet box and thick wads of cash, but shakes his head. He’ll tell him later— “whatever. It’s  _ good,  _ Albus, even though the cops came.”

“That is good. Bring everything to the safehouse, then, and we can discuss splitting things.”

Remus wants to fucking  _ strangle  _ him. He contributed nothing and still wants a fucking cut, the wrinkly old fuck. Remus swallows and takes a drag from his cigarette, shaking his head. He won’t mention the safe at all. If Albus wants a cut, he’ll get what Remus took from the cases. “Sure. I’ll bring it to the safehouse.”

“This evening, 10pm. I’d say you’d come alone but I imagine Mr. Black will be accompanying you?”

“Sirius was there. He’ll come.”

“I assumed correctly, then.” There’s a clicking on the other end of the line, as if Albus is typing, or carrying on some other business whilst he’s on the phone. “I’ll see you both at 10pm.”

“Yeah,” Remus says, heaving out another sigh, along with a plume of smoke. He really wishes that there was something else in that tobacco, too. Maybe he and Sirius can split a joint before they leave for the safehouse.

“Have a good day, Mr. Lupin,” Albus says before he hangs up.

“Have a good day too, fuckwad,” Remus mutters as he throws the phone down on the table again. He takes another long drag from his cigarette, lip curled and eyebrows knitted together as he scowls at a coffee stain on one of his maps.

Sirius clatters into the kitchen, spitting curses. “Jesus  _ fuck _ , Remus, why is this pile of  _ shit _ still here? I thought you were taking it to the charity shop?” He stumbles into view, just in jeans and nothing else, bare feet and bare chested. His chest is covered in hickeys, though Remus does see a few more  _ bruises _ from their scuffle. He’s covered in them, and just as Sirius tends to do, he’s wearing them like a badge of honour.

“I will!” Remus says, sounding far more frustrated than he wants to. He’s not that angry at Sirius anymore; they’ve made up, like they always do, without talking or apologies because they  _ know  _ each other and  _ love  _ each other and don’t need apologies and long, boring conversations to sort out something that’s fixed with a joint and half an hour—maybe an hour, maybe two—tangled together in those sheets they need to wash, with Sirius kissing Remus’ freckles and Remus holding Sirius so tight there’s fingerprint bruises left in his upper arms. Remus is angry with Albus, not Sirius. Not anymore.

“You’ve been saying that for a week,” Sirius says back, padding over to Remus and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. His breath is warm through Remus’ hair as his deft fingers trail down Remus’ arm.

Remus is wearing a t-shirt today, wildly enough, and as Sirius’ bruised and scabbed fingers dance along the length of his arm, Remus can’t help but to stare down at the phoenix tattoo on his own wrist; faded and blurry, but still a vibrant orange, yellow and red. The gang tattoo. Remus used to be  _ so proud _ to bear it; a mark of who he is, who he was supposed to be, but now it just makes him irrationally angry. There's a scar there, too, from when his arm got caught on barbed wire once when he was running from the police. From the ball of his wrist to the crook of his elbow, the scar curls around his whole forearm like a rosy snake of raised skin against the usual, pale and freckled complexion.

“I know,” Remus mutters. “I’ll get it done soon, I promise.”

“One day, you’ll wake up and I’ll have it all on the kerb, like a bad break-up, only it’s with all your bullshit,” Sirius mumbles, trailing his lips to Remus’ temple as he slips himself between the table and Remus’ chair.

“If you throw my shit out on the kerb, you’ll swiftly follow.” Remus wraps his arm around Sirius’ waist, pulling him close. “I’ll throw you out by the scruff of your neck, like a cat.”

“Yeah? Whose name is on the deeds here, babe?” Sirius is grinning, Remus can feel it, with the way his lips are curling against Remus’ cheekbone. “You know I’d just climb back up the fire escape, or sit out there in protest, in the rain, ‘til you let me back in.”

Remus chuckles. “Is it raining in this weird fantasy of yours? Like a bad teen rom-com?”

“Yep,” Sirius says, popping the ‘p’. “It’s an awful teen rom-com, it’s raining. Perhaps I’ve got a boom-box, or I get my friend who plays guitar to come down here and help me serenade you.”

“I’ll stand in the window; wistfully sighing as I secretly wish to let you back in, and then yell bleeped-out profanities because I can’t express emotions, and certainly can’t swear in a God-awful teen rom-com.”

“You’ll say  _ bloomin’ heck _ instead of bloody hell and throw things at me instead of flipping me off. But then, you’ll let me back in. I’ll be drenched and looking up at you with puppy dog eyes and you’ll let me back in, babe, I know you would.”

“I’ll always let you back in, baby,” Remus whispers, gently guiding Sirius’ face closer to his own so he can kiss him, properly, and not just bask in the feather light kisses Sirius has peppered all over his face. Sirius kisses back, of course, a proper kiss, with his hands skating up into Remus’ hair, pulling him closer, closer. 

“The Bonnie to my Clyde, babe,” Sirius murmurs, just a hair’s breadth from his lips.

“Nah.” Remus grins. “The Bonnie to  _ my  _ Clyde.”

Sirius rolls them a joint, and they sit on the sofa, passing it between them as they watch the news— _ again _ —on the telly. Remus sits with his back against the armrest of the sofa, legs and arms both wrapped around Sirius, who sits tucked in with his head on Remus’ shoulder. 

The reporter on the news is smiling artificially, then she swallows and lets the smile fall as she says, “A robbery took place last night at jewellery store Ollivander’s and Co, where several thousands pounds worth of jewellery and even paper bills were stolen.”

Remus can feel Sirius tense up immediately, the plume of smoke from his mouth huffing out on a breath. Remus quickly snatches the joint from his fingers before Sirius decides to throw it across the room, or something. 

“Fuck’s  _ sake _ ,” Sirius spits, his hand smacking on the cushion next to them before he stands up. He’s still barefooted so his combat boots don’t  _ smack _ on the floor like they usually do, but Remus can see the tension and  _ energy _ rising from his boyfriend.

“There are no suspects yet, as the victim claims that the robbers were ma—” Remus quickly changes the channel. They’ve already heard this a thousand times before. 

“Baby,” Remus says carefully, moving slightly so he can look properly at Sirius, but doesn’t rise from his seat.

“What?” Sirius turns, throwing up a hand. “Fucking  _ bullshit _ . We should’ve pulled that off without a goddamned hitch and here we are. Least we still got the goods, I fucking suppose.”

“Fucking relax.” Remus puts out the joint in an old glass of water on their coffee table. “It’s done, alright? We got some shit, but it’s  _ done,  _ and we can’t change it now.”

Sirius watches him, his silver eyes bright in the low light of television. His shoulders are tight, rising and falling with his breaths. “Right,” he says, gritted through his teeth.

“Sit down, alright? We’ll watch a shitty movie or something until we’ll have to see Albus.”

Sirius’ jaw clenches as he glances to the clock. It’s an hour wrong because they’d never updated it for daylight savings, but now they just  _ know _ it’s wrong and deal with it. “Light that joint again,” he says, jutting his chin towards it. “Or I’ll roll another. I’m not going to see Albus sober.”

Remus raises his eyebrows at Sirius, a slight smirk on his lips. “I put it out in a cup of fucking water. Sadly, I think I’ll  _ have  _ to watch as you roll another one, make sure you do it right.”

“Oh yeah?” Sirius’ face rearranges into his self-assured smirk in barely a moment. He takes a step forward, leans over Remus to retrieve the little tin he keeps the weed in. “Definitely pass judgement on my rolling skills, hm?”

“Yeah,” Remus says, grinning. “I need to make sure they’re good enough, you know? I can’t smoke a badly rolled joint.”

“Of course not. You only partake in the best illicit substances, don’t you babe? Only the best for you.” Sirius is grinning widely as he sits next to Remus and places the tin on Remus’ thigh instead of his own. Remus leans forward to press a kiss to Sirius’ temple before he gets too concentrated on the rolling, chapped lips scratch against smooth skin, and then Remus leans back again with a grin matching Sirius’. 

“Exactly.” 

Sirius works quickly—he’s been rolling joints since 14, Remus knows—but it’s never not fascinating to watch: how he pinches just the right amount to drop onto the paper, rolls it between his fingers with the accompanying crinkle, the tip of his tongue coming out to seal it together. He holds it out like he’s presenting Remus with a crown, laid across his palm. “Good enough for you, babe?”

“It’s adequate,” Remus says, grinning still as he takes the joint from Sirius’ hand to stick it between his lips. He lights it with a lighter that  _ must  _ belong to James, going by the colourful plastic wrapped around it. 

“ _ Adequate _ . Such wonderful praise, you fucking prick,” Sirius mutters, before he leans in to kiss Remus’ jaw.

Remus laughs, tilting his head back a little as Sirius kisses that sharp line of bone, breathing out a cloud of pungent smoke as he does. “It’s great. You know it is.”

“Yeah?” Sirius nips in the same place before lifting his head. He lets his lips part just a little, lingers to the side. “Give me a shot, then.”

Remus grins before sucking in a long drag of the joint, letting the smoke swirl down his throat to his lungs before he gently tilts Sirius’ head and presses his lips against his boyfriend’s and exhales. He hears how Sirius inhales deeply, feels how he’s grinning against Remus’ lips and Remus thinks for what must be the hundredth time since last night that he loves him, no matter what. When he pulls back, both of them shrouded in smoke, Sirius is still grinning, and there’s a warmth in those steely eyes that Remus knows is love, too.

“I love you,” Remus whispers, just because it seems worth saying out loud. He’s got the awful stick-and-poke of a star on his neck, and Sirius has his matching moon, like a permanent stamp of love, yet it feels worth saying out loud. 

Sirius grins in response, stretching his neck just a little. Remus can feel how raised bits of his tattoo are, because Dorcas was drunk when she’d done them, but he loves it nonetheless. “Love you too, babe.”

Remus takes one more drag from the joint, then hands it to Sirius. “Even though you can be a pretentious prick, a lot of the time.”

“You can be a grumpy bastard, a lot of the time.” Sirius’ smile crooks to the side as he takes a long drag of the joint. The smoke plumes out of his nose and the slight part of his lips, still leaning close enough for Remus to be enveloped in it, comforting almost.

“Most of the time, really,” Remus says. “I thrive off grump and saltiness.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it myself.” Sirius chuckles, takes another drag on the heels of his first exhale, the smoke and his eyes almost the same colour in the low light like this. “But I love you for it, salt and all.”

Remus hums, and leans forward to press his lips to Sirius’ jaw, nip at the soft, bruised skin, run his tongue over the deep purple there. Sirius tips his chin back, angles just a little for Remus to feast on the bruises he’s left there before, like a scavenger for carrion. He brings the joint to his lips and takes another luxuriant drag.

“We need to leave soon, don’t we? To see the crusty old twat.”

Remus groans into the skin of Sirius' neck. "We really do, huh?"

“Mmhmm, unless you want him taking a higher cut, babe.”

Remus nips at Sirius' neck, then sits up properly. "I guess we'll leave now, then. I'll get my notebook."

* * *

Remus doesn't tell Albus about the safe when he dumps the bag of jewellery he took from the cases on Albus' desk in the safehouse. Doesn't tell him when Albus talks about fencing, when he estimates the amount by casting an eye into the bag and says, "I'll take forty percent, then, and I'll write this up."

He doesn't fucking tell him, and part of him knows that if Albus finds out he'll be in some deep fucking shit, but the thought of splitting twenty thousand pounds with his friends, finding another guy to fence the necklace that was in for repairs and get the cash for that too, stops him from opening his mouth to say,  _ there was a safe in there, too. _

Instead he squeezes Sirius' hand when he growls at Albus and his stupid forty percent and keeps his mouth  _ shut  _ until him and Sirius spill out on the street again.

Sirius, who Remus realises doesn’t know about the safe, is already spitting curses and reaching for his cigarette carton before the door to the safehouse shuts behind them. “Crust, old fucking—fuck him and his forty fucking percent. Bastard.”

"Sirius," Remus says, grinning suddenly. "Sirius, baby."

Sirius pauses, halfway to lighting a cigarette, so the lighter catches his fingertips and makes him hiss another curse. “What?”

Remus' grin threatens to split his face in half, and he excitedly taps his fingers on Sirius' shoulder. "I never told him about the safe."

“What?” Sirius splutters around his cigarette and holds his arms out to his sides like some sorry excuse for Jesus on the cross, a martyr for their sins.

Remus laughs. "I never fucking told him about the safe! Holy shit."

“Remus Lupin, you fucking  _ beauty! _ ” Sirius hollers before he throws his arms around Remus’ neck, tackling him nearly into the road. Remus laughs again, and it echoes in the street as he wraps his arms around Sirius' waist, stumbling on the street.

"We've got another twenty thousand and an arsey fucking necklace. Holy shit."

“Fuck, god, I love you, you utter madman!” Sirius wraps a hand around his jaw and tugs him in for a sharp kiss, more smiles and laughter and teeth than any real kissing. Remus can feel his fingers jittering.

Remus is laughing into Sirius' mouth, and he feels like jumping and screaming right here, on the fucking street, where people are passing by and cars are speeding past them. He tangles his hands into Sirius' hair, and thinks that they must look like a just-engaged couple with the way they're laughing and the way Sirius is shouting  _ I love you _ .

"We need to fucking celebrate."

“Let’s get back home. I can think of a few ways.” Sirius is grinning in his own manic way now, lurid and sharp as his fingers shift to Remus’ wrist to pull him further down the street towards the bus stop.

They're practically  _ skipping  _ on their way to the bus stop, Remus stopping every few feet to press a sloppy kiss against the first place he can reach on Sirius' face. A driver in a car shouts a slur at them, and normally both Sirius and Remus would be fucking  _ livid,  _ shouting back and raving and ranting, but there's money and a necklace which needs fencing and a hell of a party awaiting them at home, so they don't  _ fucking care.  _ They sit knee to knee on the bus, laughing still at absolutely  _ nothing. _

Sirius unlocks the door to the stairwell and drags Remus up the stairs, almost by the scruff of his neck, like Remus had threatened to throw him out earlier in the day. Their footfalls echo through as they tumble up the steps and Sirius leans against the doorway as he unlocks the flat door too. Usually, he has to reach through to unhook the chain—in a very specific way that he can manage with years of practise—but this time he doesn’t. Remus is too happy to think of anything besides the fact they must’ve forgotten to pull it across on their way out.

“C’mon, let’s celebrate,” Sirius says to the corner of Remus’ jaw as he pulls him into the flat.

"Fuck yeah," Remus says, hand back in Sirius' hair as he kicks his shoes off.

They trip over that pile of  _ stuff that Remus absolutely needs _ in the kitchen doorway and Remus feels for the light switch out of habit before he realises that the light is already on. Then he swiftly realises there’s someone sat at the kitchen table, with that repaired necklace in front of him, looking thoughtful and hauntingly familiar. 

Sirius’ voice breaks him out of his disbelief.

“What the  _ fuck _ are you doing here?”

Remus' heart falls to the pit of his stomach, and before he can register his own movements, Remus has gone back to the hallway where his gun  _ usually _ lays, hidden in a drawer of hats and scarves. He fucking  _ sprints  _ back to the kitchen, stumbling over the shit on the floor, gun raised and aimed at the man sitting by their kitchen table.

When he appears back in the room, though, Sirius has the man pinned to his chair, with one of his trusty butterfly knives held against his throat. He has a mean look in his eyes that Remus very rarely sees.

The other man, the one with dark hair and high cheekbones and a smile that turns up at the corners, seems thoroughly unaffected. “Hello brother.”


	6. Chapter Six

Sirius slams the now-more-than-half-empty bottle of vodka down onto the table. He still has his knife in his left hand, sitting across from Regulus, as if he expects that fight or flight instinct, like a wild animal. Regulus has found the necklace Sirius had stashed in a kitchen cupboard and has it laid out in front of him. He looks as calm and demure as ever and that makes Sirius want to punch him.

“Start talking. What the fuck are you doing here?”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “That’s mother’s necklace.”

“I’ll melt it down for scrap then,” Sirius spits, reaching out for the necklace. Regulus snaps the case shut before he can reach it.

Regulus eyes the gun Remus had slapped down on the table before he fucked off—probably to sit on his fucking  _ Windowseat of Feelings _ and overreact—with his eyebrow still raised, like some stupid fucking cartoon criminal. 

Sirius gestures with his knife towards the gun. “You so much as touch that and I’ll cut your fucking fingers off.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sirius,” Regulus says, calm and cool as ever as he looks back up. “I’m not too fond of guns, anyway. They make too much noise.”

_ Fuck. _ Sirius snorts a laugh to hide the strange pang of  _ something _ in his chest to hear how easily those words might have come out of his own mouth. “So, why the fuck are you here? You want the necklace back for mumsie dearest? You’ll have to pay.”

It’s Regulus’ turn to snort. “ _ Mumsie dearest _ ? Jesus.” He shakes his head with a half-grin. “I don’t want it back. Opposite, actually. And I doubt you know how to fence such high-end shit by yourself, which  _ I  _ do.”

“You do, do you?” Sirius snatches the vodka bottle up again, taking a swig and setting it back down just out of Regulus’ reach. Regulus grimaces at him, looking as though he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know what. 

“Last I saw of you, you were so far up Orion’s arse you could see his tonsils. You think I’d trust you to fence something and not just rat me out to those sorry excuses for parents?”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “You’re not the only one who’s gotten the fire poker across the back, you overgrown child. Let me fucking speak.”

“Ha. Go on then.” Sirius sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and kicking one foot up to press the toe of his boot against the side of the table. “Speak.”

“Well, first off, I can still walk into Borgin & Burkes,” Regulus says, tapping his fingers on the table. “Which you can’t, we both know that. And Borgin happens to trust me.”

Sirius just nods. If Regulus wants to speak then he’ll be fucking silent. He can almost hear Remus in his head, calling him  _ petty _ .

“Who do you usually get to fence your shit? That Fletcher bloke? He goes to Borgin too, you know. And our lovely parents still love his shop, so, you know. I can take care of it.”

Sirius gives a sardonic little smile and raises one eyebrow in an expression that says  _ done?  _ Regulus waves his hand, gesturing for Sirius to say something. 

“Why should I trust you?” Sirius says after rolling his eyes. “How do I know you’re not gonna turn tail and run with the profit?”

“Because I want out,” Regulus says simply. “I’ve no reason to stay.”

“I can bring it to our group. Not without some kind of… proof though. You gotta do something for us before we just… let you have a necklace like this. Especially now I know it’s Black family; she always had expensive taste.”

“Fine.” Regulus shrugs. “I’ll do whatever. As long as it’s not murder. I’ll do almost whatever.”

“Interesting line to draw.” Sirius scrapes along a groove in the table with the point of his knife. “I wanna break into Grimmauld.”

It’s  _ impossible  _ to read Regulus’ facial expression, but Sirius sees  _ something  _ in his eyes that might look like the bright sparkle of a grin, if Regulus’ mouth wasn’t set so tightly. He nods slowly. “Sure.”

Finally, a smile plays on Sirius’ lips, flicking bits of wood across the veneer. “Quick to agree.”

Regulus shrugs again. “Do you know a place where I can sleep for the night? A hotel, or something.” He casts an eye around the kitchen, frowning slightly. 

Sirius watches him a moment longer, trying to read his expression, to see if he were being truthful or not. Perhaps Regulus is honest, and he  _ does _ want out. Perhaps Sirius knows him, after all this time, and he can read that little flicker in his eyes. “You can sleep on the sofa, so long as you know it’s covered in spunk, and I lock both the front door and our bedroom,  _ and _ if you try to steal anything I’ll make good on that threat to cut your fingers off.”

Regulus casts an eye at the piles of garbage Remus has collected at the same time as there’s a, “Fuck no!” from the bedroom.

Sirius scoffs a laugh and calls back over his shoulder. “Why the fuck not?”

There’s the sound of a very dull crash—Remus probably banged into the bed frame again—and footsteps growing nearer until Remus stands in the doorway to the kitchen. “Who the fuck are you, even? No, scratch that. I’m not letting a person who fucking—fucking broke into my home sleep on my  _ goddamn  _ sofa. Fuck no.”

“Regulus is my fucking brother, you idiot,” Sirius says dryly. “Was the family resemblance not good enough for you?”

“Since when do you have a fucking brother? Has that never been relevant to mention in the three years we’ve known each other?” Remus practically spits.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Regulus says, calmly still.

“Shut the fuck up,” Remus growls at him, then looks back at Sirius with a glare that would look much more intimidating without his freckles.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Can you stop with the alpha-male shit for a fucking second, Remus? Since I ran away from the upper classes, Regulus and I have had a…  _ strained _ relationship. But, if you just give me a second to fucking  _ explain _ —” Ha, if Regulus had thought Sirius the over-dramatic one— “you’d know that Reg wants in. We’re going to break into Grimmauld.”

Remus waves his hands around, letting out choked, indistinct noises until he manages to say, “What the  _ fuck _ ?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You…” Remus squeezes his eyes shut and tugs at his fringe, with his jaw set and body tense. “Jesus. You… you can fucking sleep on the sofa tonight, you fucking arsehole.”

“I can leave, you know,” Regulus says, suddenly. “I’ll find a hotel somewhere before Father blocks my credit card, whilst you two  _ talk. _ ”

“This is a remarkably placid conversation for us both,” Sirius says mildly, sitting back in his chair. “A hotel will probably be safer, honestly. Less likely to be woken up or accidentally-on-purpose shot or stabbed.”

Remus seems to snap, and bangs his fist into the doorframe. Hard, too, by the sound of it. " _ Fuck. _ "

Sirius pushes his chair back with a heavy sigh. He grabs the vodka bottle and the half-empty carton of cigarettes in one hand and keeps his knife in the other. “Do what the fuck you want, Reg. You, drama queen, let me clean those,” he says, walking towards Remus and eyeing the blood smudged on the doorframe.

Regulus eyes the two of them, then stands. "I'll leave, then. Have you got a phone, or something, so you can text me when you've cleared this all up?"

Without looking back to him, Sirius snatches one of the burner phones with the number scrawled on the back in marker from the table—beneath that map of Europe they  _ still _ haven’t gotten rid of—and throws it to him. He looks back to Remus, trying to decide if they’re going to fight or fuck or some combination of both tonight.

Remus is fucking  _ panting,  _ still tense with his jaw clenched tightly, as Regulus clicks his number into the phone, then shoulders past them. “Have a nice night,” he says, then walks towards the front door.

“Fuck,” Remus says again. “Fucking, shitting  _ fuck,  _ Sirius.”

Sirius barely gives Regulus a glance before he crowds Remus against the doorframe, still holding cigarettes and vodka in one hand, his knife in the other, and never feeling more like a cliche. “What?”

"I don't fucking—" Remus looks as though he wants to punch the wall again, but just takes a deep breath instead— "He broke into our  _ fucking  _ home. I didn't even know you have a brother, and now he, what? Wants to get in the Order? Sleep on our fucking sofa? Are you insane?"

“Probably,” Sirius says lightly, stashing his knife in his waistband. “Come here, let me clean that, you fucking idiot. Regulus and I are complicated. I can tell when he’s being genuine, though. I’d wager if he wasn’t, my father would be knocking down the door by now, and we’d know if Orion Black made an appearance.”

"Jesus fuck," is all Remus says. "I hate you, sometimes."

Sirius just grins and grabs Remus’ right hand. He lifts the vodka bottle in his other hand to his mouth and pulls the cork with his teeth before pouring a glug of it over Remus’ knuckles. Remus winces but Sirius just smiles. “Love you too, babe,” he says through the cork. He spits the cork then takes a swig of the vodka himself, still holding Remus’ hand.

Remus snatches the bottle out of his hand with the one that isn't bleeding, takes a swig and says, "Break into Grimmauld, huh?"

“Now you’re talking. There’s the Remus I know.” Sirius pulls Remus into their bedroom, to the bandages on the dresser. “Yeah. Mother dearest has some expensive jewellery, and there’s more than a bit lying around in paintings. Plus, you know, it’s a big fuck you to them.”

"He'll have to do something else, you know—your brother, I mean. Like, how do we know he's not going to turn and call the cops when we're there, just because he's in on it right now?"

“If he does, he knows I’ll not let him get away with it.” Sirius can  _ feel _ the vitriol in his voice as he pulls open a bandage a little too roughly. “He said he’d fence the fancy necklace, too.”

"Right," Remus says, clenching his jaw again.

Sirius rolls his eyes and pauses in wrapping Remus’ hand to reach up and tap the tense little muscle at the hinge of his jaw. “Do you need to go sit on your fucking Windowseat of Feelings? C’mon, out with it.”

"Oh fuck off. I'm just… wary."

“Of my brother?” Sirius teases, grinning. “God knows the Blacks are all completely sane, well-adjusted, and fantastic judges of character, Remus. Whatever would make you think otherwise?”

Remus snorts, even though he very much looks like he'd rather not, and gestures at Sirius. " _ This _ makes me think otherwise."

“Ha! Touche, you fucking bastard,” Sirius admits, flashing Remus a sharp smile as he secures the bandage around his knuckles, tying it just a  _ little _ too tight.

"You're the most insane fucking bastard I've met, and I've seen Dorcas beating several people into pulp before."

“She’s terrifying, ain’t she?” Sirius leans his hip on the dresser and watches Remus for a moment. “I might be crazy, but you love me, so who’s the real idiot here?”

"Still you, I'd say." Remus grins. "You love me back, don't you?"

“You know I do babe.”

Remus carefully grabs Sirius by the neck with his good hand and pulls him close, presses his lips against Sirius' forehead before hugging him properly, and says, "You know, you might be the craziest bastard, but sometimes I can give you a run for your money."

Sirius snickers. “That might be the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me, babe. I’m the crazy one, don’t take that away from me.”

"Nah, I won't."

“Hey,” Sirius murmurs, his voice a little softer now as he slides his fingers into the curls at the back of Remus’ head. “Weren’t we celebrating keeping the safe from Albus, before we were so rudely interrupted?”

Remus grins, dragging his lips over Sirius' jaw. "We'll have to pick that up, then."

“Hm, for once, we agree.”

* * *

“I swear to fucking God, Remus. I’m sitting in the fucking armchair. My family, my heist, my  _ fucking _ armchair.”

"Fuck  _ right  _ off, you arse. It's my fucking armchair."

“Nah, it’s the  _ leader’s _ armchair, and I’m fucking leading this job!” Sirius crosses his arms, leveling a spiteful glare in Remus’ direction.

"I'm still the fucking leader of this group, even if you're leading  _ one  _ job. It's still  _ my fucking armchair, _ " Remus spits, lips curled into a sneer.

Sirius looks around the rest of the group, who are sort of circling around them, ready to diffuse anything that gets out of hand. Like it usually does. “Hold the fucking phone,  _ you’re _ the leader? Sorry, did I miss a fucking vote or something? I want the damn armchair.” He steps past Remus, heading for that disgusting plaid wing-backed armchair that he loathes but he wants to fucking sit in it.

Remus throws himself onto the armchair, knocking Sirius out of the way. "My dad was under Albus, I was under my dad. Now my dad's fucking  _ dead,  _ and  _ I'm _ under Albus. In  _ my  _ fucking armchair."

“Ugh, you fucking  _ child _ .” Sirius rolls his eyes and goes to shoulder past James to grab the other chair but James has already side-stepped him because he knows. Heedless of the horrible scraping noise, Sirius drags the chair over to right in front of Remus’ armchair, facing out to the rest of the group. “Fucking  _ right _ , shall we get started?”

"You'll need your fucking notes," Remus snarls, and throws his notebook at the back of Sirius' head. 

"Could the two of you calm down for once in your fucking lives?" Dorcas says.

“Actually,” Sirius continues, as if Remus hasn’t pelted him with that fucking notebook and Dorcas hasn’t called them both out, “seeing as I lived in the damn house for eighteen years, I don’t need notes,  _ babe _ .”

"Well fuck you, then, prick," Remus says, at the same time as Dorcas groans into her hands. Marlene is grinning beside her, clearly enjoying the interaction as if it were her favourite TV show playing live before her.

“Right. Shall we?” Sirius takes a breath, leans forward. “Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Seat of the most toxic bastards ever to grace the earth. They suck the life out of everyone, but here we are on the verge of something monumental—”

“Get the  _ fuck _ on with it, Black,” Lily says, back to filing her nails. Lily once started a fight in a bar with the bartender for short-changing her. He was in traction for six weeks and from what Sirius hears now, flinches every time he sees a redheaded woman on the street. So Sirius knows not to get on her bad side. She’s the kind of woman who can turn a man to smoke with a look.

“Yeah. We’re gonna break in, grab all the paintings and jewellery and fancy china we can, then get the fuck—”

Regulus is in the doorway. He looks even less put together than before, stood at the top of the fire escape as if he’s not sure he’s found the right place. “Sirius,” he says, as if to say  _ Am I gonna get stabbed if I take one more step forward? _

"Oh fantastic," Remus mutters.

“Who the Jesus fuck is this?” Dorcas asks, straightening up from where she’s leaning against the wall.

"Hello," Regulus says. "I'm Sirius' brother, er, Regulus."

“Since when did you have a fucking brother?” Marlene squawks from the floor.

“Since he was born, obviously. Shut your trap, Marl. Regulus wants in, he’s helping on the Grimmauld job. Reg, sit the fuck down will you?”

"Right," Regulus says stiffly, and moves to sit on one of the mouldy looking pillows in front of Sirius, but stops when he sees how  _ ratty _ it actually is, and remains standing instead.

“Sorry, sorry, your mystery brother is just  _ joining _ ?” Marlene flaps a hand, looking Regulus over.

“Did I stutter?”

"They're both dead fucking serious about this, Marls," Remus says. "Better just strap in and hope we don't end up in fucking  _ prison. _ "

“Nah, you’re the only one fucking Sirius, babe,” Sirius says, throwing a glance over his shoulder to Remus.

"I'm not going to get you all into prison—" Regulus begins, but cuts off with a choked noise when he seems to process Sirius' quip. " _ Jesus.  _ Okay. Right."

“Right, we’re not going to prison. If there’s two people who know how to sneak in and out of that hellhole, then it’s us.” Sirius gives Regulus a nod. They’d met up the day before, where Sirius had once again assured his brother that one wrong move, and he wouldn’t hesitate.

"Yeah," Regulus says, nodding slowly. "I… I've had to find new ways to get out, ‘cause the fuckers added an alarm system to the front and back door, but it should be easy enough to disable, I think."

Marlene snorts derisively. “Ach, aye. That’ll be easy as your mam… Figuratively. I don’t reckon your mam is easy, Sirius.”

Sirius tries not to  _ gag _ . “Let’s gloss over that.”

"I don't… I don't know how you all do this, to be honest. Like, what do you want me to do?" Regulus asks.

“Tell me about the security at Grimmauld now. What are we going against?”

"Right, right. So, there's the two alarm systems by the front and back door, and the cellar door's been bolted shut. And, well, I don't really live there anymore, so I can't be much help from the inside."

Sirius says, “Shit, the cellar was our way in,” at the same time Marlene says, “What kind of alarms?”

"Those regular keypad things? Four number code," Regulus replies to Marlene, shooting an apologetic look at Sirius.

“Right-o.”

“Do any of the staff still talk to you, Reg?” Sirius leans forward, his elbow on his knee. “Charm our way in?”

“Your parents have  _ staff _ , Sirius?” Dorcas sounds a little incredulous.

“Yeah. Orion’s a stuck-up arsey little fuck of a politician, of course he doesn’t do his own fucking  _ dishes _ ,” Sirius scoffs back, glaring at Dorcas.

Regulus clears his throat uncomfortably, then says, "Kreacher talks to me, rather reluctantly, but he does. And… Well, that's pretty much it? The gardener smiles at me, sometimes."

“He’s our in, then?” Lily asks, glancing around the group.

"I mean, if we wait a few weeks til' the leeches leave for their fucking ski resort in the Alps, or wherever, I can knock on the door and ask to get my stuff back.” Regulus waves a hand. “Kreacher will probably turn a blind eye and fuck off to his room—if we allow ourselves some wishful thinking."

Remus scoffs behind Sirius. "As if any of us have the patience to wait weeks for this."

Sirius rolls his eyes and levels a glare back at Remus before turning to the group again. “Okay, but we have the loot from the jewellery store. Who says we  _ can’t _ wait a few weeks?”

"Your patience," Remus says.

Marlene snorts out a laugh and James grins broadly, gesturing to Sirius with his lit cigarette. “He’s got a point.”

“Alright, shut up.” Sirius crosses his arms, determined not to huff like a petulant child. “So what, then, Bright Ideas?” he asks, looking back to Remus again.

"Arsey politicians are bound to have arsey meetings a lot of the time, yeah? We'll go when they're both away on a meeting, or fuckin'... wine club, or whatever." Remus waves his hands around, as usual, looking so fucking full of himself that Sirius kind of wants to punch him. It’s either punch him or drag him home, and honestly, it’s usually a fine line between them both.

“ _ Wine club _ , Remus?” Marlene is lying on the floor, staring up at the open sky. “What else do you suspect rich twats do?”

Sirius sniggers, wondering what Remus will reply with, quite happy to watch the chaos reign for a moment or two.

"I don't fucking know?" Remus says, frowning. "Golf?"

“Golf! Aye!” Marlene cackles. “Wine and golf, in their Lacoste clothes, eh?”

It's Regulus' turn to laugh, and it's  _ so strange _ to hear it; the way it bubbles out of his chest like he hasn't laughed properly in years. And he probably hasn't, when Sirius thinks about it. " _ Lacoste. _ "

"Oh, fuck you. Fuck the lot of you," Remus growls, reaching into his hoodie pocket—it's fucking  _ bulging  _ with garbage—to get a cigarette, which he sticks between his lips.

“ _ Hogwarts Charity Gala, _ ” Lily says, cutting off the din starting to form with her crystal clear voice. “Minister and Mrs. Orion Black will be at  _ Hogwarts Charity Gala _ , this Friday.”

“Fuck, that’s perfect!” Sirius cries, throwing a hand up. He's vaguely aware of Remus reaching out for his notebook on the floor, then the click of a pen. He’s trying to be  _ mature _ , so he doesn’t reach out to trap the notebook beneath the heel of his boot, and lets Remus grab it.

“Right. It works. Seems like an all-night affair, so we can get in there easily,” Lily says, still tapping on her phone. 

“Yeah, so we either get Kreacher to let us in, or we can try and break in. That window near the kitchen hallway still kinda wobbly, Reg?”

Regulus nods. "Yeah. But I do need to get some shit from my room, anyway, so I don't doubt that Kreacher will let  _ me _ in, but if he doesn't fuck off the rest of you can take the window?"

James looks up from where he’s cleaning a tool of some kind that Sirius doesn’t recognise. “You take the front door, go and open a window or the back door for us, we all get in. Easy.”

"Oh. Yeah, of course."

“There we go. James, you down to getaway driver again? Though I don’t think we’ll be too pushed for time.”

"I do love my van," James grins. "And my banging playlists."

Dorcas chuckles. “I’m vetoing the 80’s hair metal this time.”

Sirius waves a hand. “Hey hey, getaway driver picks the music, Dorcas!”

"If Take Me Home, Country Roads doesn't play at least once," Remus says, "there will be shots fired."

“Black Dog is also a requirement,” Sirius says a moment later.

"You all have the worst taste in music," Regulus says.

“Oi, one more bad word about Zepplin and you’re out.” Sirius points imperiously at Regulus, who raises his hands in mock-surrender.

"Alright, calm down."

“Calm? Me? Never.” Sirius claps his hands and stands up, feeling energised and  _ ready _ .


	7. Chapter Seven

Remus sits on the floor in front of the washing machine, joint in hand, watching the bandanas he and Sirius wear for heists tumble around furiously with soapy water and the continuous sound of vibrations. He doesn't know how the fuck he ended up here, if he's honest, but as he takes a hit from the—very badly rolled—joint in his hand, he suddenly doesn't care anymore.

Sirius’ boots announce his arrival into the room, and his voice swiftly follows. “Babe, what the fuck are you doing?”

"Washing… Watching?" Remus replies slowly, taking another hit from his joint. 

“Nice.” Sirius’ feet appear next to him as he sits down cross-legged. “Gimme a hit?”

"It's bad." Remus passes the joint to Sirius, then leans against his shoulder. "But this—" he points at the washing machine— "is unreasonably satisfying."

Sirius takes a slow drag, and coughs it out a moment later. “Fuck  _ me _ , babe. It’s awful. This is why I always roll!” He turns the joint in his hand to peer at it. “Think if I rip it open I can save the weed to re-roll?”

"It's absolutely horrid." Remus closes his eyes and hums. "Probably? Worth a shot." 

“You’re fucking baked,” Sirius observes as he pinches the end of the joint and begins dismantling it.

"I am. High as a kite, or skyscraper, or something else that's really high."

“Jesus, give me a minute to catch up.” 

There’s the sound of rustling and Remus swiftly realises Sirius is rolling. He puts his head on Sirius' shoulder and cracks an eye open to watch, smiling muzzily.

“Hi babe,” Sirius murmurs, kissing his temple as his fingers expertly roll the joint together.

"Hi," Remus mumbles, letting his fingers wander over Sirius' thigh. He watches Sirius' hands intently despite his eyelids fluttering shut every few seconds, licking his lips slowly. "Oh. My tongue… is really dry."

“You should drink some water.”  _ Sirius’ _ tongue comes out to seal the joint and he slips it between his lips before lighting it.

Remus hums, closing his eyes again as his hand closes around Sirius' thigh, just to hold on, lest he might float off the face of the Earth. "I want to stay here, though."

Sirius chuckles. “Hold your hand out and concentrate really hard, babe. Use the force.”

Remus does. He stretches out the hand that's not holding onto Sirius, and concentrates  _ really  _ hard for all about three seconds, then lets the hand fall back on his side. "I have no force left."

“Weed is like Kryptonite for the force.” Sirius grins, wrapping his arm around Remus’ shoulders. “You nearly had it.”

"Should drop some acid next time. Might heighten the force, eh?" Remus mumbles, lifting his head a little to press a dry kiss against Sirius' jaw.

“Nuh-uh, only true Jedis take acid.” Sirius takes a long drag of the joint, reclining a little against the nearby cabinet. Remus cracks his eyes open again, and stretches his hand out to grab the joint between Sirius' fingers. Sirius catches his hand and brings it up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “One more drag and I guarantee you’ll pass out, babe.”

"Just one hit, baby," Remus mumbles, grinning muzzily still. "I might use the force on you, you know."

“You’re all out of the force, you said,” Sirius murmurs, leaning closer. Remus can almost taste the smoke on his lips.

"I'll concentrate  _ really  _ hard on the force. It's probably easier when you're so close."

“That’s true.” Sirius kisses him quickly, just a peck. “Go on, try really hard."

Remus tries again; screws up his entire face as he concentrates harder than ever, hand outstretched. Then he shakes his head with a laugh, and leans back against Sirius' shoulder. "Alas."

Sirius laughs and smoke plumes out of his nose and mouth when he does. It’s a proper laugh, where he throws his head back and Remus can see his Adam’s apple bobbing a little. “You were so close, babe.” Sirius kisses his head again, then looks back to the washing machine. “Ready for Friday?”

"Yeah." Remus grins. "I'll get so much silverware, just you watch."

“All the silverware you can fill your grimy little pockets with.”

"I'll get a duffel bag," Remus mumbles, scraping his teeth against Sirius' throat. 

Sirius gives him a glorious little groan in response, tipping his chin back. “Mm, a good idea. What else do you wanna get? Vases, paintings, more jewellery?”

"Yeah, all of that. Some fancy clothes, too." 

“Some more Lacoste?” Sirius laughs.

Remus nips the skin on the base of Sirius' neck with a low laugh. "Yeah. Gucci too."

“Babe, I’ll get you all the Gucci you want.”

"I'm not sure if I like Gucci, to be honest."

“Yeah? Whaddaya want? Louis Vuitton? Balenciaga? Versace? Whatever you want babe.” Sirius’ throat works around an inhale of the joint before he exhales.

"That's nonsense," Remus says through a chuckle. "What is this posh language you're speaking?"

“It’s posh-speak, obviously,” Sirius snorts, taking another drag of his joint.

"Nonsense," Remus whispers.

“Complete nonsense.” Sirius kisses him on the temple. “I’m getting the leftover Chinese food out of the fridge, I’ve got the munchies.”

"Oh fuck yeah," Remus says, moving to stand up. "Chinese food in bed?"

Sirius stands, somehow effortlessly even though he’s smoked the better part of a joint himself, and strolls to the fridge. “This is why I love you, obviously.”

Remus hauls himself off the floor, and part of him thinks that he looks as effortless as Sirius, but as soon as he has to brace himself against the wall to avoid collapsing on the floor, that thought disappears. He takes a few deep breaths, blinks, and then shuffles to the bedroom.

He bangs his foot against the bed frame, and with a wince and a hiss of, " _ Fuck, _ " collapses onto the—now newly cleaned—bedding.

Sirius is chuckling to himself as he comes into the bedroom a few moments later, holding two plates piled high with food. “You’re a fucking mess, babe.”

Remus huffs as he sits back up. " _ You're  _ a mess."

“Sure, sure.” Sirius climbs onto the bed next to him and sets a plate in his lap. 

Remus digs into the food—he can't remember what they ordered but he also doesn't care because as soon as he's chewing on a piece of meat, all he can think about is how fucking  _ good _ it tastes—and silently vows to himself to always let Sirius roll their joints from now on.

* * *

Remus is fucking  _ buzzing.  _

The bandana he wears for heists is newly washed of blood stains and spit, tied around his neck and ready to be hoisted in place over his nose instead, and James is already blaring his shitty 80's hair metal as Remus and Sirius throw duffel bags into the van.

Sirius is barking orders at everyone, to usher them all into the van. Remus knows he's nervous, but damned if Sirius would admit it. Sirius is the last one to climb in, pulling the doors shut behind him. As soon as he does, James hits the accelerator and they’re off towards Islington.

Remus grabs a hold of the seat as to not fall into Sirius, and he sees Regulus from the corner of his eye practically fly forwards in his seat. Sirius puts an arm around him and squeezes tight, chuckling. He’s got a joint in one hand, because he never does heists sober, and the blue smoke is whirling around them all. He doesn’t look  _ nervous _ really, but he’s nearly vibrating out of his skin either in excitement or something else entirely.

"I requested Take Me Home, Country Roads, Prongs," Remus says seriously, though he's grinning. "I expect it now."

Marlene groans and slumps in her seat. “Please no, for fuck’s sake Moony.”

James is already cheering though and jabbing at the centre console of the van—which veers across the road with his lax attention before he corrects it again—then Remus’ request blares through the speakers.

"You all have, again, the worst taste in music," Regulus says.

"You've no taste," Remus fires back quickly. "I will not accept any discrimination against John Denver in this house."

Sirius waves a hand in Regulus’ direction, the joint between his fingers coming dangerously close to Dorcas’ hair. “Your favourite artist is  _ Tchaikovsky _ , Regulus.”

Regulus grimaces. "Fuck no.  _ Post Malone. _ "

Sirius chokes on his inhale. “What the  _ fuck _ ? Post Malone? Jesus Christ…”

Dorcas laughs and claps him on the back. “Finally, good music, you fucking nerds.”

"In what world?!" Remus blurts, throwing his hands out, dangerously close to smacking Marlene across the face. " _ In what  _ fucking  _ world  _ is Post Malone better than David Bowie?!"

“I know, babe, I know,” Sirius says as soon as he’s done choking, his arm still tight around Remus’ shoulders. “I know, Bowie is your king, huh? You’re right, don’t you worry.”

"You could almost rival Albus with that condescending tone." Remus plucks the joint from Sirius' fingers, grinning as he takes a pull.

Sirius snorts a laugh and shoves him away. “You compare me with Albus one more time and I won’t let you back in our bedroom.”

Marlene reaches between them and grabs the joint. She takes a long drag before throwing it out of the window and snapping it shut behind her. “Can you two just  _ not?” _

“Not what?”

She gestures roughly at them. “This. Just… what the  _ fuck _ , either of you? I don’t understand you in the  _ slightest. _ ”

Remus presses a dry, scratchy kiss against Sirius' temple, and says, "You see, Marls, when two people are in love—"

"I get that! I just don't get…  _ you.  _ What the fuck? What even are you?"

“Too cool for you, obviously,” Sirius says with a stupid little snicker of laughter that tells Remus he’s stoned as all shit right now. That’s fine, though—Sirius usually does his best when he’s not on this planet.

Remus huffs a laugh and listens as the mellow tones of John Denver's guitar fade into nothing, then into  _ Police & Thieves  _ by The Clash. Regulus groans.

"Nope! Nuh-uh. I'll have Albus give you less of the cut than the rest of us if you groan one more time." Remus points at Regulus, trying to look angry even though he's very much not right now; too manic and energetic to even try.

“You’ll have Albus give me less money because I don’t like  _ The Clash? _ ” Regulus laughs, shaking his head. “You are all fucking insane.”

"Thank you," Marlene says, smiling innocently. Remus squints at her. 

Regulus just shakes his head and looks out of the window. “We’re nearly here.”

“I know. Who the fuck is driving here, pal?” James says, turning to look over his shoulder for long enough that the van swerves again.

"Anyone but you, next time," Lily says, patting James on the thigh. "Eyes back on the road, please."

“Don’t say that with your hand remotely near my crotch, Lily,” James says with a snort.

“Her hand is on your  _ knee, _ you fucking scab,” Marlene says, frowning over at them.

“And yet?” James laughs, wiggling his eyebrows at Marlene. “Lily Evans touches me in any way? Insta-boner.”

“James, what the  _ fuck!? _ ” Sirius shrieks, throwing his hands up. Remus reaches forward to swat James around the head.

"Mate, shut the fuck up."

"Jesus Christ," Regulus mutters, burying his face in his hands. "What the  _ fuck  _ have I gotten myself into?"

Remus wants to say that the rest of the drives goes smoothly, but it doesn't. It really fucking doesn't when James is driving. He’s sure there’s a few narrow misses whilst James is scrolling through for the perfect driving song, or when someone says something that makes him squawk and turn around to stare at them, but somehow, fucking  _ somehow _ , they end up in the street behind Grimmauld Place.

This posh end of London couldn’t be further away from their home neighbourhood. There’s no graffiti on the walls, there’s no chewing gum in wads all over the pavement like a modern-art painting that would sell for millions. All the streetlights work, and the Order’s van stands out like a sore thumb amongst all the fancy cars.

Sirius is the one to get out first, quickly followed by Regulus. Remus remembers that once upon a time Sirius felt at home in a place like this, that this  _ was _ his home.

Combat boots and torn sneakers smack across the pavement where Remus feels like he would hear the click of high heels instead, and he has a vague thought of kicking the needles on the ground before he realises that there are none. It's too  _ clean,  _ too organised and too…  _ not home,  _ in any sense of the word, despite the houses lining the roads.

“Okay, Regulus. You go and talk to Kreacher, and we’ll wait around the back?” Sirius claps his brother on the shoulder, shifting his weight from one foot to the other because he can’t quite stand still today.

Regulus nods then starts down the street. “See you at the kitchen window, yeah?”

"Text first," Remus says, fishing in his hoodie pocket for a cigarette. He's sure he's got one somewhere, but before he finds one, Sirius is holding one by the filter out to him, a wry smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’ll text,” Regulus tells them as he starts down the street, waving a hand over his shoulder.

Remus lights the cigarette with a little nod, looking over at Regulus' retreating back. He's still  _ buzzing,  _ grinning with downright manic energy he can't shake, or wants to shake for that matter.

Sirius grins and scrubs his hand through Remus’ hair before bringing him in for a quick kiss. “Let’s go rob these bastards.”


	8. Chapter Eight

Sirius pulls his bandana up over his mouth as they wait beyond the walled garden of Grimmauld Place. He has his phone in his other hand, the third burner phone that Regulus has the number of, waiting for a text from his brother.

It’s now or never. Regulus either proves himself as wanting to be part of the Order, or he’s double-crossed them, and they’ll all have to sprint to the van. 

Dorcas is pacing back and forth in front of Marlene, who is just leaning against a lampost. Lily is a little further down from the gate, looking for James and the van as he drives around to the next street and back again. Remus' foot taps against the pavement, rapid and weirdly off-beat as he takes quick drags from the cigarette Sirius handed to him. 

They're all stressed, or  _ nervous,  _ more like, but all too proud to admit it out loud. Sirius can feel the energy though,  _ crackling _ around him. He thrives on this kind of shit, lets it electrify him as he checks his phone almost obsessively, waiting, waiting, waiting.

_ Clear. Back kitchen window. _

The text comes through with a short, sharp little vibration and before it’s even finished Sirius has shoved his phone into his pocket and started through that old garden gate, reaching through to unlatch it.

Sirius hasn’t been back here for  _ years _ , but he recognises it immediately. The house looms up in front of him, and he quickly spots Regulus hoisting open one of the sash windows on the ground floor. He doesn’t glance back to see if everyone is following him, just counts on it with the way he can hear the crunch of leaves behind him.

"Oh this is  _ posh _ -posh," Marlene whispers, quietly as though she'd set off alarms around them if she raised her voice. “Way out of your depth, eh Lacoste?”

Sirius snickers as he moves forward, meeting Regulus at the other side of the now open window. “Just because your Dad lost all your family money on a shitty poker hand, Marls,” he says, throwing a look over his shoulder.

“Stop quipping and get in here, Christ,” Regulus hurries out, grabbing Sirius by the shoulder and pulling him forward.

He crawls through the window, thrown back to when he used to do this very same thing years ago, tired of Walburga's seemingly everlasting Valium pills and Orion's clenched fists. Regulus has already stepped to the side and Sirius does the same to allow Remus in behind him, then Marlene, Dorcas and Lily.

The house is quiet. It’s eerie.

“Where’s Kreacher?”

"In his rooms," Regulus says quietly. "I told him I'd grab my stuff and leave again, so I think we need to work quickly."

“Yep. Let’s go. Lily and Dorcas, you two take this floor. Marls, Reg, you two take the middle floor. Remus and I will take the top floor.” Sirius is already starting out of the drawing room towards the stairs, jittering too much to stand still.

"Give me a sec, will you? I actually do need to get shit out of my room."

“Do it quickly then,” Sirius says as he climbs the stairs. Remus is right on his heels, holding two duffle bags in his hands as the rest of the Order spread out. Sirius takes two sets of stairs with Remus right behind him, only pausing once he is on the third floor. His parents room is up here, his mother’s jewellery, all their favourite artifacts and tapestries and poncy  _ shit _ .

"Marls was fucking right," Remus mumbles. "Like I  _ knew,  _ but I didn't know it was  _ this bad. _ "

Sirius snorts a laugh. Remus grew up in a fucking shithole, Sirius knows; a cottage out in the middle of nowhere with mould in the ceiling and a constantly dripping faucet. Their  _ flat  _ is fancy compared to the old Lupin cottage.

With a shove to Remus’ shoulder, Sirius starts into the large dressing room. He remembers sneaking in there when he was younger to look at his father’s fancy suits and the diamond encrusted dresses and the watches worth  _ thousands _ . He’d always look and never touch, but now he can touch, he can rake whole shelves of expensive jewellery into this duffle bag and no bastard will be there to stop him.

He can hear the jangle—is that even a fucking word?—of necklaces and earrings hitting against one another as Remus shoves them into his pockets. It’s a reassuring sound, because he hears it in every heist they pull, but sometimes Remus’ klepto tendencies have a habit of ruining things. This time though, Sirius won’t let them. He stalks along the walls and racks of expensive clothes, grabbing watches and designer shoes and handbags worth more than their flat, shoving them into the bag.

"Jesus," Remus mutters, opening up drawers and cupboards to grab what he can. "It's a wonder you turned out like you did with all of this shit here."

Sirius responds by throwing a thousand pound shoe at him over his shoulder, like dunking a basketball without looking, and judging by the yelp Remus gives, he hits his mark. “For a good few years I was a posh bastard. Then some poor tart plucked the watch off my wrist and corrupted me.”

"Oh, you poor thing," Remus says, and Sirius can't tell what exactly he's referring to. "Corrupted by a street rat."

“Ha, riff-raff, street rat!” Sirius sings, that  _ stupid _ song from that stupid Disney movie but now it’s in his head. He turns around and jabs Remus in the arm with a stiletto heel. “Scoundrel, take that!”

"Ow!  _ Fuck _ , you idiot." Remus smacks Sirius on his arm with a scowl. "Shut up before your fucking servant finds us."

Sirius snickers, shoving him away again. “Come on, there’s more in the bedroom. Plus my mother’s favourite painting, and I’m getting that.”

"I wonder if there's a study with some poncy shit in it. Like a gold plated letter knife or a peacock feather quill."

“Oh yeah, father’s study is next door. I’ll get you a peacock feather quill, babe. Whatever you like.” Sirius waves a hand, going through to the bedroom. 

Remus follows, suddenly tugging Sirius back to kiss the crescent moon tattoo on his neck. "I'm fine with my regular pens."

“No fancy gold letter opener?” Sirius grins, leaning into Remus and tipping his head back onto his shoulder. 

Remus' hands are on Sirius' waist, squeezing lightly. "Nah. Just having you is fine."

Sirius shifts his weight back further, taking a step back to press the length of his body against Remus’. He tilts his head enough to press a kiss to Remus’ jaw. “You know, we should shag on my parent’s bed, just to make it worse for them.”

Remus hums, wrapping his arms around Sirius properly. "We haven't got that much time."

“You’re quick, aren’t you babe?” Sirius laughs, turning around to grin at Remus. He’s bright red even though he’s smiling and Sirius can’t help but tease him like this.

"Not quick enough." Remus kisses Sirius again, then pulls away. 

Sirius snickers and pulls him back in by the strings of that awful hoodie for one more kiss. “Ruining my teenage dreams, you know,” he mutters against Remus’ lips before stepping past him further into the room.

"I'll check out the study," Remus says. "So we don't get  _ distracted  _ again."

“Boring.” Sirius waves a hand again before he goes over to the nightstands, rifling through them for anything fancy enough to take.

"See you back at the van." Sirius hears the smack of Remus' lips, that tells him that he's blown him a kiss for God knows what reason, and then the light smack of his Converse sneakers as he leaves the room.

Sirius blows a kiss almost absently towards the door, then turns back to rifle through some more drawers. When he comes to his mother’s side of the room, he sees the painting hung above the dressing table. It’s his mother’s favourite or, it was when he lived there, so being able to snatch it from under her nose is exhilarating. Ruben’s _ Massacre of the Innocents _ sits in pride of place on the wall, and Sirius remembers staring at it for hours when he was younger, trying to decide why it was here, of all places. A depiction of Herod ridding Bethlehem of all infant boys, here of all places. Some terrifying allegory? A warning?

The floorboards creak outside of the room, and an involuntary shiver runs down Sirius' spine that he quickly shakes off. "There you are." It's Regulus, holding a duffel bag of his own. "We should probably wrap this up soon, I reckon."

Sirius leans against the dressing table and looks at his brother. They’ve been estranged for years but here they are breaking into their childhood home and stealing from their  _ parents _ . “I agree.” He swipes a pair of diamond earrings and stuffs them into his pocket. “You’re really leaving?”

Regulus shrugs; like a nonchalant lift of his shoulder as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Yeah."

“Why? Why now?”

"I'm getting married." Regulus swallows. "And I don't want to get married."

Sirius freezes, in the doorway of their parent’s bedroom. “What? … What the fuck?”

Regulus heaves out a deep sigh, swallows again and says, "I'm gay, Sirius. Sort of. Mostly."

“Mostly.” Sirius feels a bit like a parrot as he steps forward, staring at Regulus. “I… I mean, you know I am too, right? Remus isn’t just my bizarrely close best friend. You… you don’t need to be worried?”

Regulus snorts a laugh. " _ Bizarrely close friend.  _ You're like an old abusive married couple, so I didn't really think that you were. And, well, the worry's going to be there no matter what, isn't it? Like…" Regulus clears his throat. "There's a bigger reason as to why I'm leaving than just… a gay man marrying a woman."

Sirius grimaces. “I’m glad you managed to get out of it, then.”

"Yeah." Regulus shifts again, looking around the room for a few moments before he points at the painting on their mother's side of the room. "You stealing that?"

“‘Course,” Sirius scoffs, striding over to it. “Help me unhook it?”

Regulus nods and drops his duffel bag on the floor, following Sirius into the room. His hands are on the frame within seconds; his hands looking pale and slender like Sirius' own did before they turned rosy pink with scars and bruises. Sirius watches him for a moment before they unhook their mother’s beloved painting from its hanging. 

"It's a shame mother threw away all of our drawings when we were kids," Regulus murmurs. "Otherwise we could've replaced the painting with a lovely portrait."

Sirius snorts a laugh as he tucks the painting under his arm. “As if our darling mother kept anything I so much as breathed on, Reg.”

"Your room is practically untouched, you know."

“Is it?” Sirius gives him a look. “Shall we go trash it?”

Regulus scoffs a laugh, running his hand through his hair. "It might make too much noise, but if you  _ desperately  _ want to…"

Sirius gives him a look. “Who the fuck do you take me for, of course I want to. I was trying to convince Remus to shag on their bed just to piss them off even more but he wouldn’t.”

Regulus laughs again, shaking his head. "It's quite the turn-off, I imagine. Shagging in your boyfriend's parents' bed."

“Ha, you and I have very different tastes. I think a big literal fuck you to our parents is a great turn-on.” Sirius claps him on the shoulder and strides towards the stairs. “C’mon, I wanna go wreck my room at least.”

Regulus grabs his duffel bag and trails behind Sirius, and just as they're about to take that first step down the stairs, they're stopped by a, "What the fuck are you two up to?"

Sirius freezes, mid-step, at the sound of Remus’ voice. Darling Remus, with his cigarette-laced voice and his fucking grating accent, Remus who refused to shag on his parent’s bed, Remus who rolls the shittiest joints. “Nothing, babe?”

"No?" Remus laughs and steps out of the study—Orion's study that was locked all hours of the day, except for when he wanted to  _ talk _ . Remus' pockets are bulging again, and the duffel bag in his hand doesn't seem to be able to zip. "It seems like you're doing  _ something. _ "

“Nah.” Sirius waves a hand and shoots Regulus a look of  _ fat lot of help you are _ . “Well, listen I was thinking of going to give my parents a big fuck you, seeing as you won’t shag me in their room.”

"I'm not letting you shag in their bedroom because we haven't got time, you dense fuck," Remus says. "And you're not exactly  _ quiet  _ either."

“We can make time!” Sirius rolls his eyes but strides towards the kitchen. Remus is probably right, he supposes, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

"It's a real laid back bloke you've gotten yourself," Regulus says with a grin. 

“Something about us balancing each other out?” Sirius turns around and flicks Regulus on the forehead. “Are we leaving, or not?”

"Yeah," Regulus murmurs. "We'll trash the place some other day."

Sirius puffs out his cheeks. “Remus, you are ruining my fun.”

Lily strides past them, slinging a bag over her shoulder. “Can you two stop with this heist foreplay? Every damn time.”

"You should try it out with James sometime," Remus says with a wink.

Marlene is already at the kitchen window, throwing it open. “Can we  _ not _ ?”

Sirius rolls his eyes, scraping a hand through his hair after he ensures his bandana is in place. “Let’s not. Time to leave, right? Lily, text James. We’re done. Heist fucking accomplished.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is! the last chapter! we hope you enjoyed!

Remus sits on the floor, duffel bags spread out in front him and cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. The Order can be fucking  _ excessive  _ when it comes to grabbing shit during heists, but they're practically rich now, so Remus can't really complain.

He's gone through two bags; sorting clothes from cutlery and fine china, throwing one thing in one pile and another thing in another pile. It's mind-numbingly fucking boring, and Remus has already got a dull headache, his eyes stinging.

He wouldn't mind calling Sirius in for a distraction— _ distraction,  _ not  _ help,  _ Remus doesn't need help—but something in the rational part of his brain tells him that he shouldn't, that he should hold on and go through the mess alone and  _ then _ he can go looking for Sirius; give him a quick blowjob or something,  _ just because.  _ Remus hates his rational brain.

Sirius pads into the room with a cigarette between his lips. He’s shirtless—Jesus, why does he always just hang around in his jeans? His bare chest is so fucking distracting—and barefoot and as nonchalant as ever. 

“You’re still doing that?”

Remus only hums, shamelessly looking at Sirius' chest and the few odd hickeys that Remus has scattered there, faded from deep purple to a rather foul yellow. He has half a mind to ask Sirius to put a shirt on, or Remus won't be able to stop himself from pulling Sirius down next to him for a kiss that will definitely turn into something  _ more,  _ but doesn't. He just clenches his jaw and looks back down at his piles of stolen goods.

“I’ll help, babe,” Sirius says, taking a drag of his cigarette and exhaling as he drops into a cross-legged seat next to him. “Find anything good?”

Remus takes a drag from his own cigarette, then plucks it from his lips and says, "Not yet."

“Mmm. This necklace is nice. Would suit you, babe.” Sirius grins and holds up a sapphire necklace against Remus’ throat. “Cute.”

Remus shoves at Sirius' shoulder with a smile. "Fuck off. I'm not a  _ diamonds and pearls  _ kind of guy, you should know that by now."

Sirius shifts up onto his knees, chuckling around another drag of his cigarette. “What about a fancy watch, eh? A Rolex, babe?”

Remus laughs with a slight shake of his head before he takes another drag from his cigarette. "Maybe I should pierce my ear," he says, holding up a small diamond earring. "What do you think?"

“Ha. Yeah, I think you’d look good with it. C’mere, I’ll do it right now.”

Remus laughs and scoots closer to Sirius. "Have you got a needle, or are you just gonna… y'know, shove it in?"

Sirius snickers. “Just gonna shove it in, babe,” he mutters, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Gonna sterilise it though.” He plucks his lighter up and runs the earring through the flame for a moment. “Hold still babe.”

Remus bites his lip, sitting as still as possible as Sirius gently grabs Remus by his earlobe. Sirius kisses him briefly a moment before he feels a sharp, burning pain in his ear. Sirius’ fingers fumble with the earring clasp for a moment before he leans back to look properly.

“Oh, that is one sexy diamond earring.”

"I should hope so." Remus grins, even though his whole ear seems to be fucking  _ burning.  _ "It was quite painful."  _ Is.  _ Is painful, but Remus isn't going to correct himself.

“We can ice it?” Sirius sits back on his heels, laughs. “Or, we can get high.”

"Get high, definitely." Remus leans forward to press his lips against Sirius'. "I wanna watch you roll."

Sirius smirks. “I’m sure you do. Leme go get the weed.”

Remus grins and sits back as Sirius hauls himself up—graceful and effortless as usual. He eyes the piles of stuff in front of him, and thinks it might be easier to go through it when he's stoned, or _ vibing,  _ as James would say. Sirius goes to the coffee table, then reappears with their weed tin. 

“Paying attention?” He asks with a wry grin as he sits back next to him, beginning to roll.

Remus makes show off watching Sirius' hands very intently, chin propped on his own hand and brows furrowed, as if he were examining a fine painting a museum. It kind of feels like he is.

He's seen this hundreds,  _ millions  _ of times before, and yet he never grows tired of Sirius' fingers expertly working around the rolling paper, how he seals and twists it  _ just so. _ It's fascinating and inappropriately beautiful; a piece of fucking art. Though he'd never say that out loud, of course.

Sirius’ eyes flicker up to him every so often, before he pops the filter between his lips and lights it with a flick of his lighter. “Mm, not bad, not bad,” he mutters around an exhale.

"Give me a hit?" Remus asks, scooting closer to Sirius, eyes flicking between the joint and Sirius' lips.

“I suppose,” Sirius says lightly, spinning the joint around in his fingers so the filter faces Remus.

Remus leans forward, putting his lips around the joint and inhaling deeply. "Adequate," he says with a smirk as he exhales again, watching the smoke swirl up towards the ceiling from his mouth.

“Adequate,” Sirius repeats with a scoff, leaning forward to catch Remus’ chin between his thumb and two fingers. He’s still holding the joint and Remus can see the smoke rising in the corner of his eye, can feel the heat of it near his cheek. “How very rude,” he mutters, voice a little lower now as he presses a kiss to Remus’ mouth.

Remus grins into the kiss. He puts his hand on the back of Sirius' head, tangles his fingers in inky black hair and just  _ holds.  _ He love-hates Sirius and never wants to stop.

* * *

Remus is back on the floor the next day, sorting through the last two duffel bags, this time with a cigarette and a half bottle of vodka instead of the joint.

He's on his bag now, and almost starts laughing maniacally at how many small knick-knacks he's collected. Everyone likes to call him a klepto—often that instead of his actual name—but he's not sure if he's actually sat down and  _ seen  _ how bad it can get. It's what brings him food on the table, cigarettes in his mouth, and a roof over his head though, so it's not  _ bad  _ that he's a klepto. Well, it is, but not in Remus' situation. He's walking a grey line of morals, in his opinion. A Robin Hood story, except him and his friends are the poor.

He's sorted through jewellery and watches, and actually found a gold plated letter opener which he might give to Lily, or might not. She is sort of terrifying, and might be even more so with a knife plated in gold. There are only books left that line the bottom of the bag—why the fuck did he swipe those? Are they also gold plated?—Remus notes as he takes a drag from his cigarette. He stubs it out on a plate beside him with a sigh, and sticks his hand back into the bag.

Only a few—hopefully valuable—books. It'll be fast.

The first one, Remus sees with a sneer, is decidedly  _ not  _ plated in gold. Instead, it's leather bound, with fancy and intricate designs carved into the corners and spine. He flips through it absentmindedly, seeing  _ nothing,  _ and throws it into a pile of  _ miscellaneous. _

Remus feels his head beginning to pound again. With a groan, he picks up another book; equally as boring as the first one with the leather and designs, though it seems to be bulging slightly, the pages buckled at the front. Remus frowns and flips the book open.

He has to squint to read the fancy script on the front page:  _ Albus Dumbledore. _

The next few pages hold newspaper clippings that Remus peers at to read, but it doesn’t take him long to start piecing it together. 

_ Daughter of a Baron found dead at family home. _

_ Homicide investigation underway in Dumbledore death. _

Beneath those is a paragraph or two in a neat script that looks like Sirius’ does. Orion’s then, maybe?

_ Albus was in a bit of a tight spot after the… unfortunate passing of his darling sister, but what are old friends for other than to offer a helping hand? ~3000 a month or those pesky photographs and voicemails end up at our good friend Detective Moody’s desk. _

Remus' jaw drops as he keeps flipping through each page.  _ Daughter of a Baron found dead. Dumbledore death. _

Remus racks his brains. He's heard of this, he's sure, maybe in passing mention of the  _ most tragic unsolved case of the decade  _ on the news, by the dinner table when his mother turned her nose up at the mention of Albus with a mutter of  _ don't you forget, Lyall. _

"Holy shit," Remus murmurs. The debt. 

The debt was never his father's, then, was it?  _ 3000 a month.  _ It's Albus'. Remus knows he's said that he's been under his father before, how he's now under Albus himself because of the debt, used the fact to think too highly of himself because he is—maybe  _ was _ —something. But this… Remus can't wrap his head around it.

"Sirius!" It comes out breathy and slightly choked. "Sirius, baby! Get in here!"

There’s a clatter from the other room, then a hiss of swear words so lurid even Dorcas might’ve winced. “Fuck! Shit you made me jump and fuck up this fucking birth certificate, babe! Fuck!” Sirius appears in the doorway—shirtless again, Jesus fuck, why?—with a scowl on his face. “What?”

"Fuck your fucking birth certificate," Remus says. "Come here."

“What?!” Sirius storms over, his boots thudding—he’s taken his shirt off but not his boots?—as he comes to stand over Remus. “Christ you look like you’ve uncovered a Black sex tape or something, what?”

Remus shows Sirius the pages of the book, heart in his throat. He can't tell if he's angry or excited or a weird mix of both. "Look."

Sirius’ scowl fades as he starts reading, then he quickly kneels down next to Remus and pulls the book onto his legs. His mouth moves slightly as he reads and sometimes Remus finds it wildly annoying but right now it’s just endearing. “Dumbledore… is this… Dumbledore owes a debt to Orion?”

"He…" Remus swallows. "He made me think that it was mine. My father's. Whatever. But it's… it's his. He must've… killed his sister?"

“Killed his sister then tried to hide it. Orion knew because he’s a bastard like that and then he was blackmailing Albus? And then… Albus made you and your Dad think it was yours?”

"Yeah." Remus swallows again, and reaches out to grab the bottle of vodka beside him. He gulps down three mouthfuls with a wince, then looks over as Sirius.

“Well shit, babe! We can… fuck! This gets Albus off your back  _ and _ out of the picture! And it’s a far better fuck you to my father than shagging you in their bed!”

Remus wants to laugh and throw his arms around Sirius' neck, because, well,  _ fuck.  _ They really can get Albus out of the picture, but his mind is fucking swimming with all the information he just read. Excited, angry,  _ crestfallen,  _ Remus stands, thinking about how he used to be so proud, how Albus himself squashed it all for his  _ own fucking benefit.  _

Remus' feet carry him to the bedroom on their own accord, and he slumps down on his windowseat with his jaw clenched. " _ Fuck. _ "

Sirius doesn’t let him wander off, though, and follows him with the vodka in one hand. “Fuck exactly. Why are you on your Windowseat of Feelings? This is a good thing, babe!”

"I know." Remus squeezes his eyes shut, teeth still gritted together. "Just give me fucking moment to process his bullshittery.”

“It’s shit,” Sirius says decisively, and Remus feels the seat next to him shift. “It’s bullshit of the highest order and I still say I gut him and Lily and I dump him in the river. But this—” Sirius flaps a hand towards the door where Orion’s books lay— “gives us a better way out.”

Remus scoots closer to the window to give Sirius more room, then rests his head against his shoulder. "Are we gonna turn him in, then?"

“I don’t fancy wasting my time stabbing him, honestly?” Sirius chuckles, putting an arm around Remus’ shoulders and pressing a smoky kiss to his temple. Remus huffs a laugh.

"I think we agreed long ago to leave murder for the Death Eaters," Remus says. "And Albus, then, I suppose."

“Right. He doesn’t deserve to head the Order.” Sirius sounds fiery and set and almost scary, and Remus is reminded that Sirius has a strict moral code; it’s just rather lax compared to most other people’s.

Remus grabs Sirius' hand and laces their fingers together. "We can get your brother to turn him in. Or leave an anonymous tip. And then you and I will head the Order, eh?"

Sirius chuckles. “I’m gonna need an armchair then.”

"Of course," Remus mumbles, bringing their hands up to his lips to kiss Sirius' knuckles. "The Bonnie to my Clyde."

“Babe. The Bonnie to  _ my _ Clyde.”


End file.
